Evensong, July 21, 2013

Psalm 103; 1 Samuel 23: 7-18; Romans 11:33-12:2

I have not felt transformed or renewed in the past little while. In fact, lately, I have felt as though the world has turned against me, sort of like David must have felt with Saul trying to kill him.

I am waiting for my Jonathan to stand with me against those who want to see me dead…or at least broken down.

I am waiting for God to strengthen my hand so that these worries might be done.

The past four years have offered one disappointment after another – often these feel more like failures.

Early on, my messed up discernment process – the subsequent fool I felt I made of myself before the Commission on Ministry...

Over the past year, having my duties at work stripped away from me one by one by a new boss, to the point of knowing that any day I might be eliminated from my position…and then… having it happen…I was fired...

Having my name besmirched by that narcissistic boss – my reputation sullied in an attempt to appeal unemployment benefits… accusations known to be untrue hurled out into the world for the sheer thrill of causing damage….

Seeking help through the Department of Social Service, having a caseworker send help through the mail … to the wrong address. …then, after I checked on it, be told I make too much from the unemployment (that finally kicked in) (that may be near to history) to receive help…

These days I am afraid to look up for the fear that yet one more crazy thing will be tossed at me.

If it is not an “enemy” out to get me, then it is at minimum the reality of living into a failing culture. 

Once upon a time, I was accused of “creating furor” and that might have been true but it was never vindictive, nor mean-hearted and never ever an attempt to do harm. In fact, I spoke truth to the power and it caused grief to that power.

Over the past four years, I have learned what it is to be powerless…to be at the mercy of not only those who would do me harm but of being an invisible player in a social welfare system. Even in the church, it feels as though I have mattered little.

I can assure you I have beat my chest and cried aloud in pain and anguish to God – WHY ME????What have I done to deserve this?

And Why me indeed? A better question would be Why not me? Why another?

Paul tells us:

DO NOT BE CONFORMED TO THIS WORLD. Be transformed by the renewing of our minds that we may discern what is the will of God – what is good and acceptable and perfect.

Is it the will of God that I go through this trial with a vindictive past employer?

No.

Is it the will of God that the caseworker from the Department of Social Services screws up when we need her to help?

No.

Be not conformed to the small minded pettiness or human error of this world.

It is not God’s will that meanness happens, nor human error…Life just happens.

I do believe it is God’s will that I understand the problems that plague people everyday…the situations beyond their control that beat them down, wear them out and run them over. I am one of hundreds of thousands and out of those numbers, I am one of the lucky ones. I have my community, my family, -- each one of you -- to bear my burdens with me, to walk this journey with me. 

I lost my job because I was naïve to the mean nature of some people. I innocently thought that truth could and would overcome evil. 

And I still believe that God’s abiding love will prevail. eventually

The only way it fails to do so is when I allow myself to be conformed by those things in the world that do harm.

I appeal to you, my brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your lives as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.

Do not be conformed by the meanness in this world, by the petty nature of people who seek to do us harm. Do not repay hurt with hurt, hate with hate.

Do not be conformed by the inept functioning of a social system which has far too many desperate people that need help and far too few dedicated people to help. We cannot be angry at effects…we have to change the cause…

Be transformed by the renewing of your mind – by the steadfast love of God for each one of us – that love that gets us through each trial, each tribulation, each day.

Know that what we seek is good and acceptable and perfect when we seek that love.

It is there in that renewing that we make our covenant with God, just as did Jonathan and David. In that covenant, our bonds are strengthened.

It is in that renewing that we know we are living contrary to a good portion of the world and that it is going to be very difficult on many days.

But in that knowledge we also have one precious understanding – God is with us always as we live this journey together. 

We are Bidden

It never occurred to me that George Zimmerman would be acquitted…totally exonerated…free to walk away as though Trayvon Martin never existed. It should have occurred to me, but it didn’t.

Like many, I grew tired of the constant news coverage of the Zimmerman trial. As a result, I feel as though I feel asleep during the most important part of a movie.

With the verdict, I awoke – as obviously many did – with an exclamation of What the Hell???? 

Why would it have not occurred to me? Just because all the markers that indicated that George Zimmerman profiled Trayvon Martin, stalked him, confronted him and subsequently killed him were in place, the times we live in at this moment should have sent out all sorts of warnings that Zimmerman might get off.

The blatant racist remarks made over the past 5 years about the President of the United States, the growing war that seems to be in the midst of destroying the middle class and all that it was and could be, the violent rhetoric spewing at an unprecedented rate against women by Texas and other state legislatures, the absolute hate and virulent actions against all things outside of a very narrow ideology, the sinful amount of corporate and private money being poured into the promotion of that excessively narrow mindset…all of these things point to a nation turned upside down both morally and ethically.

I am not sure why the State of Florida prosecutor did not use the Stand Your Ground idea with the thought that Martin attacked Zimmerman simply because Zimmerman confronted and scared him. Certainly, Martin had as much right to confront his stalker as did the husband who awoke to find his wife in a less than platonic position with a male neighbor on the living room couch. I am also not certain why Martin appeared to be on trial even though as the victim of this shooting, he is dead.

The only things that Martin might be accused of were being a black teenager, wearing a hoodie, and not answering Zimmerman’s questions the way Zimmerman wanted him to answer. Not good reasons for receiving the death penalty, at least not in the “normal” sense. But these times are far from “normal”.

If every teen who ever sassed a wannabe adult got the death penalty for intended or perceived disrespect, there would be very few teens left in the world…at least not in the less-than-United States.

I can’t even begin to get into the insanity of the Stand Your Ground defense…nor of Florida being one of the 22 Kill at Will states.  https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=476611935762054&set=a.330756843680898.74066.328133157276600&type=1&theater

I cannot begin to describe my sense of amazement or rather, dumbfoundedness at the devil that lives within the minds of those who conceived the law that allows one person to kill another … legally…as long as it is not a fetus, of course.

I am sure I am not alone in my bewilderment, frustration, and sense of despair. Yet, today,  deep within that state of mind that make me want to fall on my knees – not in wonder but in anguish – and lament My God, My God…came a post on Facebook from Brian D. McLaren,” author, speaker, pastor, and networker among innovative Christian leaders, thinkers, and activists.”

What we call the secular is actually the realm or domain of the Spirit. The secular - literally meaning the world, the realm outside of church control - isn’t profane. Rather, properly understood, it is sacred because the Spirit is and has always been active there, evoking light from darkness, order from chaos, fulness from void, life from lifelessness, actuality from potentiality, and potentiality from actuality. - From Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road? (p. 151) (sic)
Learn more here:<a href=”http://bit.ly/R8fzUI”>http://bit.ly/R8fzUI</a>

In that post, I was brought back into the hope that is the Holy Spirit, into that sacred, crazy, chaotic space where She lives and moves and God breathes. Into that sacred terrifying space we are invited to not just exist but thrive. Into that space, we are asked to be a part of all that is holy. Into that space, we are not simply invited but bidden.

It is there, here, that we are called to share our love…right here in the midst of hate and venom, violence and distrust, anger and anxiety, pain and suffering.

Here in the presence of the Holy Spirit, the breath of God, ruach…we are bidden…come...come and be a part of the darkness, the chaos, the void, the lifelessness, the light, the order, the fullness, the life...the actual potential of a life filled with the Holy Spirit.

circumstance

this is a holy time, a sacred time
             crawling on paths of change with no control
a time of fear uncertainty anger
a time of Why      Why Not
a time of rants/raves with few/no answers
a time for listening       but not wanting to
a desire for answers with no pain

fingers digging in the dirt stretching back eyes to search the sky
looking for God in the known and unknown
seeing only dregs of humanity
            the pain the suffering
identifying with the possibility     it could be me
not for the "Grace of God"
but for the sheer circumstance

hope's light a dimmer glow
buried in the angst of now
not lost in the midst is the presence of God
my mind wonders in God's silence. God struckdumb
by the humanity of it all?
or just biding in that God-time?

vengenance is mine saith the Lord so the scripture goes
heart blackened by unjust ways
makes it hard to care for God's justice
             somewhere down the road

That God-time thing again.

If you don't see it, does it count?

The other day I saw a friend’s reference on Facebook to the Mary Chapin Carpenter song lyrics, “sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug”. Certainly many can relate to that!

I do right now, for sure. The idea that God’s way is not our way has never been more apparent to me than it is at this time. The last year and a half has been very difficult and seems only to be getting more so as time wears on. I know that all manner of things will be well…eventually. But for right now, there seem to be a lot of people dying a long dang ways away and a lot of need in the immediate area of finances.

I love St. Louis. I really do. It is basically temperate – regardless of the high humidity and heat combination, I am telling you all – it is temperate when compared to five+ months of hot and the ongoing desertification of North Central Texas. The growing season here is amazing. There are a lot of the same types of plants in North Central Texas but who knew some of these trees and bushes actually bloom when allowed to thrive in rainwater and moderate temps?

I love the idea that when the temperatures in St. Louis rise above 60 degrees, the streets are full of people. Parks, sidewalk cafes, people sitting on their stoops – having a “stoop” even! I love it. I love my old house. Most of all, I love the Mississippi River and the Arch. Top all that with some of the finest people I have ever had to pleasure to come to know and love, it is just a great place to live, regardless of stupid magazine articles.

But I have been so tired lately.  I have not known what to do. Feelings of ineptitude, impotence have washed over me, making me weak and unsure of where I am headed. All the reasons why we came to St. Louis seemed to have evaporated above the multitude of trees into the beautiful blue skies.

I know that we are feeling the stress of loved ones lost to death. Knowing that it is a beginning of loss rather than an end makes the future seem dire. Being out of work adds to it, creating a negative sense of urgency. It allows us to wonder – what the hell are we doing? What have we done? Yet, always we are consciously aware that what we did was what we were supposed to do. And that all we have done can be claimed as good, regardless of what it seemed to be the cost.

But now, it almost seems as if there is a siren going off in the far distance, calling out to us…get up, go, it is time. Of course, whatever is calling is not giving a direction…just an order.

Mary Chapin Carpenter goes on to sing, “Sometimes it all comes together, sometimes you’re gonna lose it all.” Sunday’s gospel spelled it out basically the same way. (Luke 9:51-62)  I know beyond a doubt that we were called and continue to be called by God to live our lives according to God’s will. I know that sometimes we try to plow a straight line but forget and look back over our shoulders and the row goes all wacky. I know that sometimes we get attached to the things that hold us in place too long. It is so much easier to stay in a job that seems god-less and toxic than it is to say, “take this job and shove it, I ain't workin' here no more.” A salary is a very nice thing to have, as is insurance.

I have been on the margins for as long as I can remember. It is from there that my voice most often spoke. It was from there that people were able to respond. There are a lot more people on the margins that most (even those there) will ever realize. Yet in these last five years, I have found the comfort of the middle stream, floating comfortably along with the current, feeling safe. And if not “happy”, at least I was not anxious about the day to day worries associated with money. Bills were being paid, everyone in our house was basically healthy and if we weren't,  at least two of us had insurance. That is…until…until the jagged rocks popped up in the middle of the channel, catching me unaware, to change it all.

Perhaps that is what my unrest is all about – the reality of the precarious nature of our very being has slapped me full in the fact, not once or twice but several times.

This week past was such an extraordinary week – my unemployment kicked in, rescuing us from the brink of some serious problems; Texas Senator Wendy Davis managed to ignite the flames of unrest with her dogged determination to disrupt unethical practices by a convoluted Texas Legislature; and then, the Supreme Court said that section 4 of the Defense of Marriage Act was unconstitutional. The “gutting” of the Voting Rights Act can actually been seen as an extraordinary event – it served to cause a lot of sometimes far too quiet people to stand up in outrage. That is a very good thing and will be needed if the US Congress does as the Supreme Court told them to do – fix the VRA so that it works properly. And then there was Pride. Pride celebrations were held all over the nation in the month of June but few that I have seen (online rather than in person) can compare with the elation of St. Louis Pride this year in particular. City buildings lit up in rainbow lights, gay pride flags flying throughout the downtown area, thousands upon thousands of people in downtown to express their support of their LGBT brothers and sisters and in celebration of the DOMA ruling.

All of these things happened from the edge…the margins. I watched intently from 8:30-ish p.m. to well past midnight on the evening of Wendy Davis’ stand against Rick Perry. I read of the Texas Legislature’s immediate response to the VRA’s gutting as they began plans to redistrict. And of course, the district that voted Wendy Davis into office is one of those areas to undergo remapping. I was up and glued to the SCOTUSblog the morning of the DOMA and Prop 8 decision. And I was in the midst of all the Pride events, working the Faith Aloud booth on Saturday, walking in the parade with the Episcopal Diocese of Missouri on Sunday, and later just enjoying the excitement of a large group of people elated at the current state of affairs. All of these things from the margin…not the mainstream…

I have been too long doing things that were not in my gifts set; skill sets, maybe, but gifts, no. I have forgotten that God gave me the gift of speaking out when others cannot or do not feel able. I have been afraid to write for fear of offending; forgetting that offense taken is often not the problem of the one supposedly causing the offense. As a friend of mine used to tell me – rather often, actually – “Honey, it ain’t always about you.” 

Besides that, not writing what I am called to write doesn’t make a whit of difference to those making decisions – people will make the decisions that they will make – regardless. But my lack of writing harms me, makes me timid, makes me fearful, makes me stay silent. Silence is no one’s friend. And it makes me seek comfort.

I cannot do what God calls me to do from the middle of the stream…not even from the Via Media. I am not called to see both sides. I may not always be on the same side (yeah, I probably will be) but I can’t stand in the middle. I am called to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” How can I do that from the middle? Others may have an answer for that but I don’t see one for me…at least not at this moment.

So, who knows where this pull will lead me? Who knows the works intended but God? I don’t even know if I am ready. I just know that I had to write all of this.

But I do have to say, putting this all in writing and onto the blog, scares me half to death. If not that many people see it, does it still count?

A Voice from the Gallery

I always insisted that I was pro-choice just as I always believed that I was. That is, until 9 months or so before May 7, 1996. That was the day my first grandson was born.

When my daughter came to me, telling me that she was pregnant, I immediately said, “Well, you need an abortion.” She said, “no, I don’t want to have an abortion.” I gently reminded her that she was only 18, in her first year of college and oh so many other things. I told her that an abortion would be the best thing. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Mom, I thought you were pro-choice. This is my choice.”

And I realized the impact of being pro-choice. Regardless of my opinion, what it might cost me in vacating dreams for my daughter or in dollars and cents, it was not my decision.

To say I was pro-choice meant that I had to act in that same manner.

My feelings of “my body, my choice” dates back to 1972. I was 19, living with a roommate, in my second year of college and I felt a certain amount of independence although my monthly income still came from my parents. I was dating and of course, it being 1972 (does it matter the decade??? Or century for that matter?), I believed that if it felt right, all was well.

And so it was…until I found out I was pregnant. All of a sudden, I was not free, I was trapped. And scared. And oh my god, terrified of telling my parents. In fact, it got down to the point where I decided that no, I would not, could not tell them at all. I was afraid they would be so disappointed in me.

And I never have to this day told them. And I probably would not be writing this now if my mom was still alive…not because she would have disagreed with my decision but because I had never told her in all of these years. That would have hurt her. Little did I know at the time that she might have agreed with my decision to abort the pregnancy.

I told the guy I was dating. His immediate reaction was that I had to have an abortion. Never did it occur to me that he was totally violating the idea of “my body, my choice”. Even though I agreed with him, still, I was scared to death and some worried that I was making the wrong decision.

The Supreme Court made its decision about Roe v Wade on January 22, 1973….about 4 months after my decision had to be made. It was determined that I would fly to Los Angeles and have the procedure there. I barely remember it all. I remember that he made arrangements and paid for it all. I remember the fear, the plane ride, the fact that LAX was much smaller in reality than in my imagination and the lights overhead as the gurney I was lying on was wheeled into the operating room. I do not remember flying home or how I got to or from either airport. I just knew that I was home and in my own bed and in a good deal of discomfort, emotionally and physically.

Have I been sorry that I did this? That is a really packed question. I am not sure I can unpack it still to this day. I was not sorry that my life was not changed dramatically by a newborn baby. I know that I would not have had the courage at the time to raise it on my own. It would have made me utterly dependent upon someone else. In the dark spaces of the night, I lamented the little one it might have been. In my more adult years, especially after the birth of my daughter, I often wondered at the lost chance of a big brother for her. But of course, I always wondered that if I had “him” would I have had her. She is the balm that soothes my concern. In these days, I think of the man he might have been.

For whatever reason, “it” was always a boy in my heart and mind.

Would I do it again? I can’t answer that either. I don’t know. My views on abortion have changed as have I over the years. I do not like the idea of aborting that which may be, will be or actually is. I think sex education will do far more to control the unplanned births than abortion. I definitely believe in the sanctity of life but that goes to my beliefs that the death penalty is wrong also.

Regardless of the decision I make about my body, I would never tell another woman or girl that they should – or should not – have an abortion. I certainly feel adamant that no man…NO man…has a right to tell a woman what they should – or should not – do.

Our Christian sexual ethics are screwed up. That is the truth. Abortion won’t fix it. But neither will a bunch of men (and the few women) telling women what they can or cannot do with their own bodies. It is just not that easy.

My situation was my own doing. I should have known better than to get pregnant. But there are a whole lot of women and girls out there who have no choice. It is not their fault. They did not agree. My fear came afterwards…it was of the unknown. Their fear is of the known and/or the uncontrollable.

That makes one hell of a lot of difference.

So, I stand beside Senator Wendy Davis. She spoke, and I know will continue to speak, for all those who have no voice…for all those whose fears are real and now.

I say thank you to Sen. Davis and give thanks for her courage. 

Got to find my way back

http://www.metrolyrics.com/house-on-pooh-corner-lyrics-kenny-loggins.html

I used to sing Kenny Loggin's song House on Pooh Corner to Tucker when he was a little boy.

"Christopher Tucker and I walked along under branches lit up by the moon..." He loved hearing his name in a song and it seemed to fit so well.

Our days are disappearing all too soon. Suddenly he is 17 years old. Before I know it, he will be gone to college and onward. He will be beyond my perceived ability to guide and protect him.

He will be an adult...a man...

Coming Out Day for Families & Friends

When my partner, our son and I were travelling across the US talking to different groups within and without the Episcopal Church, one of the things that we noted early on -- people want to talk about their gay or lesbian loved ones. More than that...they NEED to talk about them.

I have heard horror stories from gay men, full of heart break as they were cast off into the outer darkness by people who supposedly loved them. I know that the stories of many lesbians and their families are just as tragic.

When we first started our journey, we thought we were to share OUR stories, share OUR lives in this Episcopal Church. The first thing we learned was that as soon as someone heard our story, they wanted to share theirs. And we realized that it was very, very good.

We heard from a son of a gay father, a sister of a gay brother, and many moms of gay or lesbian children. People wanted to tell us of their friends that were gay. They told us how important these people are to them.

To feel that one cannot speak of a loved one for fear of bringing shame upon that one or of being shunned by someone because of that person keeps many people quiet. Yet, just as the purpose of Coming Out Day is to help people realize that we are all connected, so is it important for families and friends of gay folk to be able to share their stories. It normalizes a situation.

Regardless of our personal story, sharing it allows someone else (and the storyteller also!) to realize that no matter how taboo, how alienated, how damaged, we feel, there is another within listening distance that has a similar tale.

When we share our stories, we realize how we are connected. We realize that we do need one another.



ADDENDUM:

I actually began this post several months ago - in October. Life being what it was at the time, I just never got around to finishing it. As June is Pride Month and the Pride events are happening everywhere, it seemed appropriate to finish and post.

Reason Two

One Reason I Love St. Louis

Recently, there was an opinion piece in the New York Times by a transplant to St. Louis, giving reasons for loving/not loving St. Louis.  http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/09/opinion/sunday/loving-the-midwest.html?_r=2&

From one transplant to another, here is one reason I LOVE St. Louis. 

Finally...It's About Willie

I took Mom out of the box this morning. She has been sitting on the bottom shelf of the bookcase since I returned home after Thanksgiving…in a little vase within a box. I set the vase on the top shelf beside a carving of a mother cradling her baby. On the side of the carving are the words “Maternal Bond”. It seems appropriate. Mom gave me the statue.

It took me a while to get to that point where I could move her into plain view. I understand the reason for splitting her ashes into three parts. I totally get Daddy’s reason for doing so – he wanted her to be with all three of us. It was a symbolic gesture he had to make to help him through his grieving.

And actually, as I sit here at the table typing with the bookcase behind me, I feel a strange sensation…as though someone is staring at me.

The feeling reminds me of the early morning my grandmother died in 1998. Sound asleep, I sat bolt upright in bed. Not afraid, just hyper aware that something had just happened but I had no idea what. I sat there for a few minutes listening intently for any unlikely sounds. There were none…just a soothing consciousness of my grandmother smiling at me, patting me on the shoulder and telling me everything was all right. Then I lay down and immediately returned to sleep. It was 7:30 in the morning when I received the phone call from Mom telling me that Grandmother had died during the night.

Her death was actually unexpected. She was 90 so I suppose, at that age, death is never unexpected exactly. Nonetheless, she had recovered from a hip replacement enough to be excited about leaving rehab and going to live with Mom and Daddy. I had just seen her a couple of days before. Then, she was peaceful, rather mellow, and seemed genuinely content with moving in with my parents. Being a burden to her children was something she seriously worried about for a good many years.

I know that early morning at 2 a.m., it was Grandmother coming to me and letting me know that it was OK, that she was well and fine and that all manner of things would be well. I found out later in the full day that the staff said she died around 2 a.m. Then I knew for sure what I had already known in my heart.

She and I always had a special bond, a spiritual connection. She said it was the Indian blood. We both had vivid dreams. We would think of the other and that one would call the other on the phone. If I was having a bad time, I knew it would not be long before she called or a letter arrived in the mail because she had a dream about me. She deemed herself my protector…from what, who knows…she just knew that she was supposed to protect me.

When she died, I knew she continued to be with me. I felt her presence – not just the memories – but her physical presence. I would catch a glimpse of her, smell her, feel her nearness. That lasted for a good long time. It was comforting and I knew for sure that she continued to pray for me and watch over me.

Everyone told me that I reminded her of her baby girl that died. We both had dark eyes and hair. Betty Jane, my momma’s baby sister, died while receiving a blood transfusion directly from my grandmother.

Grandmother watched her baby girl die as her own life blood flowed into Betty Jane. What a horrible thing that must have been psychologically. Regardless of the fact that Betty had leukemia and would have certainly died, she actually died while her momma’s blood was being transferred into her beloved little body.

What would my life have been were it not for that baby dying that way? Would my bond with my grandmother have been different? What would have changed in my life had I not realized that I really liked my mom…that within all her admiration and love for me and me for her, there was a mutuality that defined our relationship with simple yet profound “like”.

Somewhere along the timeline of this path I have traveled for so many years now, I became more clearly aware of the connections that tie life together. The spiritual bond my grandmother and I shared; the mutual friendship my mother and I had; even my journey through this manufactured thing we call “church” – all things are connected. It is the grace of God threaded and woven that connects us all, friend or foe, close or far, alive or dead.

I rarely “see” my grandmother anymore but that is ok. She lives within me regardless of our ability to communicate on our familiar planes. The tragedy that I felt from Mom’s last day is fading into a more psychologically acceptable grief. I can think of her and smile now. I feel her behind me as always.

We continue to be connected. What these two women were and continue to be to the general makeup of my life is timeless and deeply entrenched within me. I am what I am because of who they were; all of us flawed and loving, touched by the grace of God that wraps itself within and without us. 

If we own it, we can change it.

The word “normal” is such a subjective word. It holds a cloud of meaning for individuals, subcultures and cultures. Yet within the meanings, it speaks volumes as to what it is not.  For every normal, there is often an assumed abnormal.

It is normal to be a baby-boomer in this day and age, at least in all cultures that fought in World War II. It is normal for old people to die. It is normal to be heterosexual. It is normal to be male and white. It is normal to be middle-class. There is a normal range for intelligence.  It is normal for children to be rosy-cheeked and full of love and laughter. It is normal that people be allowed to purchase guns for their own use. All of these normal are, of course, determined by those within the categories but can be often defined by some statistic.
It goes without saying (but I will) that there are many status quos that need to change…dramatically. Some of these are in the process of happening – just as we see with gay marriage. What once was abnormal is being now more accepted with each voting cycle.

Yet there are some norms that are way past being acceptable.

I hear and read people ranting about their constitutional rights of being able to “bear arms”. If a person doesn’t think it is ok for a Palestinian family to have weapons in their own homes to protect themselves when the Israeli tanks come rumbling down their streets to crush their houses, how is it right for United States citizens to own automatic and semi-automatic weapons of war when we are at peace? Isn’t that what the Second Amendment of the Bill of Rights was all about? Protecting one’s self and family within one’s own home?

As I understand it, the original amendment gave the people the right to protect themselves against the government. Of course, opinions are subject to speculation as there appears to be no legal consensus on the original meaning of the Second Amendment. Regardless, I do not think that it should mean that a person has a right to buy semi-automatic or automatic weapons for any reason. Consider the fact that in 1791 flintlock and black powder were the norm.

I have no qualms about people owning weapons to hunt. However, it seems rather cowardly to me that a deer hunter or even an elephant hunter would need a high powered weapon, long-range, semi, or automatic weapon to kill an animal but hey, there are a lot of cowards running around this world. If hunting is a sport, what sport is there in killing an animal from a very long range or with rapid-fire shots?

Whatever.

I don’t care what arguments people use to own weapons…and do NOT tell me that a knife is just as much of a weapon as a gun.

What I care about are the people who have died in the senseless killings. I care about the boys and men who have deemed life so hopeless and helpless that they turn to violent acts that change lives forever. What I care about is a society that cares more for their damned guns than they do about innocent people going about their NORMAL lives. I care about the mommas and the daddies, the grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, godparents…all who now only have memories of the faces of their loved ones.

Our society gets off on acts of violence. It is an adrenaline rush, I think.It has to be, otherwise, why wouldn't we change it? People respond with OMG for the event and hate for the offender, with love and outpourings of compassion and support for the families of the victims for a given time. I would think it quite normal to think “thank God it didn’t happen to me”. It is fairly easy after the press dies down to return to normal lives that have nothing to do with twenty-six people, 12 girls, 8 boys, and six adult women killed at Sandy Hook Elementary school in Newtown, CT.

It seems especially heinous that this violence was inflicted upon children. How it is worse to lose a 6 or 10 year old than it is to lose an 18 or 21 year old to violence, I am not sure. But from the reactions of the press, it is a conclusion that I have assumed. I suppose one might ask the parents of those young people who died in Iraq as a result of our military being there…4800 between 2003 – 2011. Or the families of those killed in Afghanistan…2000 and still dying. But I digress. War is normal. Death in War is normal. Forget the fact that it is an opinion as to whether we have a right to be killing people or being killed in a foreign country…

I suppose we could call this a gender based act of violence since it seems a part of the norm for an elementary school to be populated by more women than by men. One could assume when one heads into an elementary school that the majority of people within the school will either be women or children…because that is a statistic.

 Or perhaps the young man killer was a victim himself? Abused? Neglected? Perhaps his mother loved the little children of the school more than him? Maybe he went off his meds. And then, there is the question as to why the mother would have purchased these weapons if she knew her son was mentally ill.

Regardless of the unanswered questions, had the young man walked into the school with three knives or a sword or a bat or merely his hands, it is highly doubtful that he could have come in close enough contact with the victims to kill twenty-six people in such a short time irrespective of their ages. It is just not logically possible. So, stuff the arguments that guns don’t kill people…people kill people.

Whether that inane statement is true or not, people cannot logically kill as many people without guns/rifles as they can with them. People cannot kill as many people with single shot weapons as they can with rapid fire weapons. Truth.

With the grief that continues to rule over me in the death of my mom, my heart cannot even begin to comprehend the exacting toll the grief will take on the families of these little ones or of the women who died with them. My mom was older (not yet old) and had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. We knew she was going to die sooner rather than later. To have had five months when we had been told two months was a gift. Still, there is a deep and abiding anger with the loss…an anger against all the things in our lives which create illnesses like cancer. But these deaths were abnormally violent, an intrusion into the very essence of a normal day, caused by what we can only assume was a hate-filled rage hell bent on consuming everything in its path. What future tragedies have been set in place by this one particular event?

Yet, the killer was not the evil one. He was as much of a victim by way of his own demons. The evil comes from a society that would rather protect the normalcy of the individual rights of the killer’s dead mother to be a “gun enthusiast” who bought killing weapons than it has to protect the lives of innocent victims – whether mentally ill geniuses or normal children and teachers. That is EVIL.

And pardon me, please, as I once again digress…what the heck does it mean to be a gun enthusiast? What part of a weapon that kills is one enthusiastic about? If it were an antique…maybe…but seriously…

Own this, all of those who want to claim the right to buy and own a semi-automatic weapon or automatic weapon. Own this all who have allowed the gun Lobbyists to ride shotgun over the Congress of this land. Claim this tragedy as one brought on by personal actions of the silent and the noisy ones. Claim this tragedy, all who have allowed this gun control conversation to die.

Keep your damned rifles and shotguns for hunting. Keep your crossbows and such. Just get rid of the handguns, rapid fire weapons and the sniper rifles. None of these is for anything but killing people. And we already have enough weapons of mass destruction to do that job.

The cause of these deaths belongs to each one of us. When we own it, we can change it.