I’ve recently been seen at a site that advances the idea that it’s okay to kill babies because unattached sperm “dies”, unattached ovums “die”, and malformed embryos die. So why not kill babies?
I am so saddened by this. For one thing, I love babies. I could happily work as a babysitter all my life, if I believed in farming babies out. But I don’t.
The thought of killing such an innocent, pretty, thing, just because it is in the way, nauseates me. It’s like bashing in the heads of kittens or defacing priceless works of art for fun, or something, only far worse, because the realization that a baby is a fellow-human intensifies my identification with it.
And if it does not move or sadden you, I challenge your humanity.
I can remember being a baby. It’s not too unusual for someone to remember something from babyhood. My mom and I figure I was probably 3 months old when my dad got a crew cut and all his gorgeous black waves were gone, revealing a pale forehead. My mother says I screamed when I saw him. I don’t remember the screaming, but I do remember the event. I remember I was surrounded with the quilted white satin liner of the bassinet where I lay, and I remember his grinning face appearing over the edge of it, so traumatizing because of being wrong, missing the hair. I remember his reaction to me, his surprise and a sort of hurt look on his face. I would not have known all the details except that I asked my mom about the bassinet and my memories, causing her to recall that day, to remember how they later thought it must have been the haircut that scared me. She filled in many details, but I — I remember it.
Is anything wrong? Are murder and theft wrong?
Of course.
And we need to ask ourselves why. Why is it wrong to kill someone? Why is it wrong to take something that is not ours? Why is it wrong to hate? Why is anything wrong?
We need to figure that out for many reason, but the reason I want to address is this: The stakes are rising. The latest, the new right/wrong that people are beginning to feel comfortable with is the selective attack on women that is permeating the whole world, INCLUDING THE U.S.A. Men and women are stealing, raping, and killing women for the mere reason that they are women, and no other reason.
Are we crazy?
Whether women, just because they are women, are sold, abused, or killed, can we all say, “It is wrong,” without being challenged?
“Now learn this lesson from the fig tree: As soon as its twigs get tender and its leaves come out, you know that summer is near. Even so, when you see all these things, you know that it is near, right at the door. I tell you the truth, this generation will certainly not pass away until all these things have happened. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.” –Jesus (Matthew 24:32-34)
One thing different, this year: I was formulating my very first solo PowerPoint presentations. (Yeah, I know, NOW that they are becoming passé!) I was totally consumed with learning this new-to-me tool.
Another big difference was that I am now doing everything here, myself. No kids to help out. So, while there is less dust falling, less mud gobbing, and less bathtub ringing, every single daytime chore has fallen onto me. Hubs helps with things when he’s here, evenings, but . . .
Third—and I realize there is reason to rejoice for each of these—we now spend at least one whole day, per week, in another town, working on our possible second career.
So I could not work ahead and schedule posts for while I was gone. The best I could do was drag my laptop along and try to keep up with y’all.
Therefore, I have decided to try something different, which is to condense my topics into blog posts so you can see if you would like to order, soon, the audio version of them on CD. I receive no payment, but would be happy to share these with you.
I did speak on burnout. Moms, with all the kids at home and all the neighbors gone cha$ing rainbow$, can burn out. What does that look like?
It comes in two stages, both related to fire, as I related in my workshop.
The exciting stage of burnout looks like an explosion. Mom goes berserk and soon will have nothing left to give. The more lack-luster stage looks more like what we call it, “burnout”, because Mom is plain gone, out of fuel, spent.
Nothin’ cold as ashes . . .
I once posted on the song, “Pass it On” which begins: “It only takes a spark to get a fire going.” In that post, I told of how to build a one-match fire in the fireplace, and that was my intro to this workshop. However, I quickly relocated that fire in a forest and told of what foresters do to prevent forest fires.
They fight fire with fire.
In the cooler seasons when fire danger is low, they start a smart fire that can easily be controlled. They actually call this fire a “control burn”. Using drip torches, they, YES, start a forest fire, carefully watched by several professionals wielding special heavy-duty rakes and shovels, and backed up with bulldozers. The purpose is to remove all the dead, deadly debris on the forest floor, making it difficult to ignite with a careless cigarette thrown out on a hot, windy day. These lower temperature fires do no damage to mature trees, because the thick bark on them insulates the living part of the tree from the lower heat.
It’s a bit like an immunization for a forest.*
And I wonder—what kind of “debris” is in my life, that could cause a big “fire” with just the right spark and leave us with everything within me — gone?
And I wonder that about yours, too.
* (Incidentally, your state probably provides heavy fines for doing this at home, without knowing what you are doing. Don’t play with fire.)
I have long loved this verse because it shows a type of beauty often missing in our world.
A man, a tough, martial kind of guy, has a child by the hand. Gently.
And it’s not just any ol’ kid, either. The Commander has the son of the enemy by the hand. People who hate him have spawned this boy and he’s got him by the hand, drawing him to a private place somewhere inside the deep crevasses of the Roman military barracks.
Away from the other guys.
Away from listening ears.
Away from perhaps terrifying sounds and cruel or obscene remarks about Jews.
The young man has a message for him and believes the Commander will want to hear it. Why? Maybe he’s watched the man in action, before and noted a spark of humanity in him. Maybe the man has shared a bite of ration with him.
Maybe the boy just thought it worth the risk. After all, his message could save a man’s life — his uncle’s life, in fact.
The record states he took it upon himself to approach the Roman Commander with his news, though, and for some reason, the Commander took the boy quite seriously.
Maybe he enjoyed being watched, perhaps imitated, by a young kid.
Maybe he noted the earnestness in the lad’s face and instinctively knew something of great import was on his radar screen.
Maybe he was a dad far from his own brave son.
However it was, a huge, hardened hand of a Conquering Commander held the smooth, youthful hand of a Jewish boy, and together they changed history:
The boy’s uncle, Paul of Tarsus, escaped a wicked assassination plot, a lynch mob.
The last words we know of from this man with the huge hands are, “Don’t tell anyone that you have reported this to me.”
It was, after all, quite politically incorrect for them to have had a conversation at all.
About a month ago, someone plowed our garden spot. Then he tilled it. Then he harrowed it. Then he marked it into rows. Then he planted and planted and planted. Onions, cabbages, corn, tomatoes, all are out there. Everything is growing. The corn is two inches tall. Last night, I got this gorgeous posy:
It is more than just a clump of radishes.
It is saving and scrimping to buy land.
It is buying and maintaining a tractor.
It is watching weather and planning ahead for planting.
It is keeping a vegetable inventory, to know how much to plant each year.
It is changing diet to fit what grows in our area.
It is walking out to the garden every day to be sure things are okay.
It is stringing irrigation hoses out there and paying for water when the rain refuses to fall.
It is seeding it over in autumn with crimson clover so we either get a cover crop or else some venison.
It is buying and maintaining a small tiller for between rows, later.
It is researching through gardening books for help with pests and diseases.
It is sharpening and oiling the hoe, shovel, and rake.
It is pulling rocks out and chunking them into the ditch.
It is winding twine round and round and round stakes to support plants.
It is shredding piles and piles of newspapers for mulch.
It is staying up late and going out with a dorky “headlight cap” on and covering tender plants before a surprise frost comes.
All of the above, and more, go into the first bouquet of the vegetable gardening season. And here you see it, held in the hand that provided it, the hand of someone who, though he doesn’t eat many radishes, knows who does.
An amazingly poignant post from a young lady who had fought an uphill battle against Lyme disease for so many years . . . to find the thrill of victory. Savor the sweetness here . . .
Those are the words that my LLMD said to me last week. “We’re finally winning.” I can’t even begin to describe what hearing that was like. I heard the words; I smiled. But those fantastic words didn’t sink in right away. I felt… like I was staring down a beautiful cliff, unsure of what I was doing there and what I should be feeling – awe from the spectacular view or fear from being so close to the edge.
I was talking to another Lyme friend of mine recently about how hard it is to trust those words I was told. Here’s a snippet of what I said, “I haven’t ever lost hope of recovery, but somehow this feels different now. It’s not sometime in the future. It’s starting right now. I want to accept that gratefully, but I’m still protecting myself from the possibility I’ll get worse again. It’s…
I found a quote that glorifies motherhood and debated whether it is self-glorifying. I decided it praises the office of motherhood, not any particular person, and is beneficial to consider, I think, so here it is.
I’ll be speaking at a home schooling convention this weekend and must finish my PowerPoint slides, iron, and who knows what else, these next three days, so you’ll excuse me if I’m absent, I know. I’ll likely have time to reply, but not to post. If you get too bored, do not forget to slip over to the new site: TheConqueringMom.com, and leave a comment or suggestion! Thanks!
“A mother…by her planning and industry night and day, by her willfulness of love, by her fidelity, she brings up her children. Do not read to me the campaigns of Caesar and tell me nothing about Napoleon’s wonderful exploits. For I tell you that, as God and the angels look down upon the silent history of that woman’s administration, and upon those men-building processes which went on in her heart and mind through a score of years;—nothing exterior, no outward development of kingdoms, no empire-building, can compare with what mother has done. Nothing can compare in beauty, and wonder, and admirableness, and divinity itself, to the silent work in obscure dwellings of faithful women bringing their children to honor and virtue and piety.” Henry Ward Beecher