Psalm 147.13 - "God blesses your children...."
This hit me hard today.
That children become the measure of God's blessing, mercy, protection and wellbeing. How the children are doing says a whole lot about God, for sure, but even more about us, and our faithfulness to God's purposes.
Yet, it would seem that are children are cursed, rather than blessed. Not that God is doing the cursing, but rather we are, with a proud determination, it would seem, to have it our way, no matter the "collateral damage" [read: dead children].
We have violated so many of God's purposes and plans ... we have refused to heed the cries of our children, blaming them, blaming their parents, blaming everything and everyone we can, even the "act of god," for the tragedies that befall our children day upon day.
That such should happen in so many parts of the world, desperate and war-torn, only adds to our guilt - for we loudly proclaim our godliness, our great American abilities, our strength, our prowess ... we're all about greatness, or so we say.
And, yet, our children suffer ... in our cities racked with poverty, our rural areas stricken with joblessness and opioids; across the land and throughout our nation, the children of America are dying for want of nutrition, safety and by untold violence everywhere.
Not even God can undo the horrendous decisions we make to satisfy our twisted desires to own a gun ... to have power ... to be able to threaten others ... to be tough and mean ... and live as we please ... looking to the rich to help us along the way, even as the rich continue to steal every dime they can from education, healthcare and the nation's safety nets, cleverly playing upon our fears so that we'll buy even more guns and continue our violent ways.
Not even God can bless the children when we're working overtime, it would seem, to curse them.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Thursday, February 15, 2018
Monday, February 13, 2017
Deepest Revulsion
Deepest revulsion ...
As I read The Nightegale.
France, World War 2.
Occupied and deadly.
The Roundup.
All foreign born Jews.
To the East.
To work camps.
To death.
National Security.
A mother and her two children try to escape.
A crossing into the Free Zone.
But gunfire rings out.
People are killed.
They flee into the woods again.
But the daughter has been shot.
And, there, in the woods, Sarah dies.
A child.
A young girl, vibrant and loving and creative and hopeful and brave and kind and sweet and silly and full of life.
A young girl.
Dead.
Nazi bullets.
National Security.
As I read The Nightegale.
France, World War 2.
Occupied and deadly.
The Roundup.
All foreign born Jews.
To the East.
To work camps.
To death.
National Security.
A mother and her two children try to escape.
A crossing into the Free Zone.
But gunfire rings out.
People are killed.
They flee into the woods again.
But the daughter has been shot.
And, there, in the woods, Sarah dies.
A child.
A young girl, vibrant and loving and creative and hopeful and brave and kind and sweet and silly and full of life.
A young girl.
Dead.
Nazi bullets.
National Security.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Abortion as "Child Abuse"?
From my good FB friend Craig Hexham:
He writes:
Driving home from work today, came across a billboard paid for by Michigan "Right to Life" [sic]. It stated, "Abortion: the ultimate child abuse."
Struck me as odd. How about the two year old who experiences weeks and months of abuse--burns, hits, pinches, and neglect, before finally being dashed to death against the living room wall?
How about the four year old who, in imitation of his policeman father, gets the gun while dad's not looking and kills himself?
How about the six year old who's repeatedly sexually molested by her grandfather?
How about the ten year old with medical problems who is stuffed upside down in a trash can at school by his peers because he is small and wears leg braces?
How about the fifteen year old who is wanted by neither parent when they divorce?
How about the seventeen year old with skittles and iced tea who is terrorized by a maniac with a firearm?
How about the eighteen year old who's told he's a man when he's killed his first "enemy combatant?
...and these are just the ones from the last few days news. I haven't gotten started about the kids in other countries who aren't as "lucky" as the ones I've already mentioned.
He writes:
Driving home from work today, came across a billboard paid for by Michigan "Right to Life" [sic]. It stated, "Abortion: the ultimate child abuse."
Struck me as odd. How about the two year old who experiences weeks and months of abuse--burns, hits, pinches, and neglect, before finally being dashed to death against the living room wall?
How about the four year old who, in imitation of his policeman father, gets the gun while dad's not looking and kills himself?
How about the six year old who's repeatedly sexually molested by her grandfather?
How about the ten year old with medical problems who is stuffed upside down in a trash can at school by his peers because he is small and wears leg braces?
How about the fifteen year old who is wanted by neither parent when they divorce?
How about the seventeen year old with skittles and iced tea who is terrorized by a maniac with a firearm?
How about the eighteen year old who's told he's a man when he's killed his first "enemy combatant?
...and these are just the ones from the last few days news. I haven't gotten started about the kids in other countries who aren't as "lucky" as the ones I've already mentioned.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tina Fey's Prayer.
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Bea...uty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.
-An excerpt from Tina Fey's new book -Bossypants, 2011
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Bea...uty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.
-An excerpt from Tina Fey's new book -Bossypants, 2011
Monday, September 8, 2008
Mothers - First Life, Second Life
A friend of mine, Darren King, wrote this in honor of his wife, Deborah, a stay-at-home Mom now an artist.
The image to the right is entitled "Good Water" and can be found at her blog - Indigo Jones Studios.
There's the first life you live -
the one where you help
your little boy clean himself
after with limited success
he's used his big-boy potty seat
and then you wipe up the
cat puke in the foyer
you swiffered the night before
after Letterman.
It's the life where
piles of laundry rule your space
but you've grown to ignore
them as a strong-hold defense
against insanity.
Make the beds, wash the dishes,
vacuum the floors, you're too
busy to make lists and by evening
you're waiting for your husband
so you can start dinner.
And when, finally, he arrives he's late
and smells of his lunch he ate
peacefully in a nice restaurant
with his colleagues -
all of whom are over the age of four.
He comes in through the front door,
unscrews the top of his head, places his brain
on the table in the hall and asks,
"How was your day?"
Your second life
is the one where you imagine yourself
among your artists acquaintances
on a sunny Thursday afternoon
in a University town,
the streets have been blocked off,
you're in a white tented-booth
with your name on the outside,
listed above the town you're from,
your artist booth number.
You sip vendor lemonade as
your shoulders pink over the day
and you talk with attractive,
culturally-sensitive people who
upon approaching your work
ask you many interesting questions -
none of which have to do with laundry,
the best swiffer or pet vomit.
You love your children.
You love your husband.
But at least once a day, every day,
the possibility of your second life
will see you through
the reality of your first.
- Darren King
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