last night I talked
To one of the many victims
Of your perfidy
People who lost
Because you chose evil
Faithful in small things
Has always formed the acronym
I use for this well of anger
For when children (very young)
Are hunted prey in the
I left without you
Even heaven could be
An old broken-down house
As long as Love
Made a fortress out of
you force me to confront
The connectness of all things
People who would be strangers
Become intimates of a kind
A field of wild heather
Bowing in the wind
Matter and energy make up these currents
Of air and light
Which bring me together
With the face of a child
I could not keep
She changed us both
Shaped the horizon
Into “before” and “after”
Spend all these afters
I hold a degree in linguistics which I now use to marvel over the way social media has forever altered human communication.
We see bits and pieces of our web of associations and their cares, stories, immaculate teeth. We also hear enough common threads to form a blanket of associations. Others see their own threads and associations–we read discourse, all of it shaped by the constraints of a computer.
One thread I have been struck by is this neat little rejoinder, posted exclusively by the pro-abortion folk:
If you have the temerity to assert that human life is inherently valuable and deserving of legal protection then you need to shut up and foster and adopt!!!!!
Invariably I point out I have.
But I have thought about it and would like to hit this ball right back onto the court:
If you are truly pro-abortion, pro-woman-over-baby’s-rights why don’t you foster and adopt?
It would be good for us all. Trust me.
I realized this morning I have a problem with reconciling 1 Corinthians 13 with my heart, my messy wounded heart.
So I am going to perform an operation–verse by verse. See if I can’t get some healing here. I need to be healed.
Sometimes having an unread place in the universe is a good thing.
Today is my adopted son’s 19th birthday. I have had a difficult week because of this. Birthdays are good, right?
This one is important because he is, as he says, officially a free man. The problem is what will he do with this freedom?
I stay awake at night praying for him and his older sister. Afraid for them and the damage.
The damage they have already inflicted.
And whatever lies ahead…
Both Honey and Cowboy had a tendency towards um, obstinacy. Neither enjoyed taking directions. Generally Cowboy got by on his good looks and lugubrious charm, whereas Honey had been pulling the grumpy-pregnant card a lot lately. And before that it had been nobody bosses me around, b–ch!
Neither had thought seriously about the possibility that their offspring might inherit more than their rumpled good looks.
So It was a bit of rough magic that kept Honey transfixed at the kitchen table as Cowboy’s frequent guffaws over the antics of his lovable tobacco spitting, rough housing handyman/fishermen anti-heroes roamed the New England coast charming old ladies with clogged gutters and tossing plastic-encased smartphones over the deck of their heavily-mortgaged trawlers for a combination of deep sea crustacean fishing and bawdy commentary.
Usually worth a week’s wait in Honey’s book.
But tonight she could not take her eyes off the book. The next handy
Iist was called–Human Birth. Oddly enough all the human figures had a bit of a scaly dragon glint about their eyes and a sort of goatish chin fuzzy. Oddly disconcerting until she realized that her own scruffy Cowboy had the same facial hair. Hm. Those glasses the dragon was wearing looked suspiciously familiar….
Imagine a Duck-shaped boy
His pocket full of
Suddenly his private booty
splashes across pavement
He scrambles to retrieve it.
No dignity/no amount
Of love can distract him
From the $3.14 on the ground
His barely human soul.