Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle

            Confessions are part of life for devout Catholics the world over.  The opportunity to confess and repent, in order to obtain forgiveness, is a blessing for the deeply religious Catholic.  Catholic priests in Washington, D.C. hear confessions, or what passes for confession in that great city of America.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen” (Taylor).

            “Bless me, Father, for sins have been committed.  It has been one election cycle since my last confession.”

            “What sins have you committed, my son?”

            “Oh, I can neither confirm nor deny that it was me caught in sin, Father.  But it is possible some things were taken out of context, or twisted to further the cause of my opponent.

            “Funds have been misappropriated, or rather, misplaced.  There is money that cannot be accounted for in any public records.  I have no knowledge of where these funds came from, nor can I say where they currently are.  My opponent believes it is my responsibility to keep track of my campaign funds, but I’m a busy man.  I cannot be responsible for the actions of others who act without my knowledge.”

            “I see.  Go on.”

            “Sexual relations have been had with an intern in the oval office.  Again, I can neither confirm nor deny this act, but there is no proof that I was in my office that day.  Anyway, by my definition of the phrase, there were no sexual relations of any kind in the oval office, then or any other day.  That woman is not known to me, and I have no recollection of her ever being in my office.”

            “You have no recollection of a pretty woman who worked for you?”

            “She may or may not have worked for me, Father, but I have no recollection of her being in my office at any time.”

            “Go on, my son.”

            “Some records have been destroyed, without my participation or knowledge.  The destruction of the records was ordered, but I am not a crook.  I was not in the building at the time the records were destroyed.  Criminal acts were documented in the destroyed records, but I have no knowledge of those activities.”

            “Of course you don’t.  Go on, please.”

            “It was suggested that FEMA be disbanded, leaving victims of natural disasters stranded.  Sandy destroyed the upper Eastern coastal cities, and FEMA will move in their aid.  After this disaster, FEMA may be discontinued due to political climate and financial concerns.  My concern, of course, is only with the people who are suffering in the aftermath of the storm.  Those reporters had no right to ask me about early campaign rhetoric in the face of all that suffering.”

            “So you think the reporters sinned?”

            “Yes, Father.  Compassion was not shown.

            “Please grant absolution and forgiveness for the sins that have been committed.”

“Please, my son, pray for the souls of any who may have sinned, with or without your knowledge.”

            “O my God, I am sorry if You have been offended.  Wrongs have been chosen, and good has gone undone.  I firmly intend, with Your help, to avoid getting caught in sin.  Our Savior suffered and died for us.  In His name, have mercy on those who need mercy.”

            “God the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has brought forgiveness of sin to the world.  Through the ministry of the Church, I grant pardon and absolution to those who have sinned in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen” (Taylor).

            “Thank you, Father.  May I count on your support this November?”

Bibliography

Archdiocese of Washington. Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle. 2007. 1 November 2012.

Taylor. Catholicteenapologetics. 24 May 2012. 1 November 2012.

Political Freedom

“I want to leave the country.  I don’t like the direction our country is taking.”

“The trade towers collapsed 11 years ago.  We need to get over it, already.”

“Our President is ruining our country.”

These are all heard (or posted on Facebook) all around us.  I have heard these and similar sentences many times, from the most surprising people.  People love to complain about the country, and disparage patriotism, and criticize the government.

That is their right.  That is our right. We have the right to hate everything about our country.  We have the right to complain about everything, loudly if we wish, to great throngs of people if we can get them to listen.  We can argue bitterly and angrily about every policy, procedure, or law.  We can campaign to change any one law, or all of them. 

That is the beauty of the United States.  The right, guaranteed by the early founders of the government, to hate the government.  Do we ever consider how great our freedom is, in the midst of all our groaning?  By law, our government must defend our right to call them all idiots, and worse. 

We are not the only people in the world who have this right.  Other countries allow their citizens to openly criticize government.  We are probably not unique in the extent to which we exercise this right. 

But this right is not granted to all people.  There are people who risk imprisonment, banishment, even death for suggesting their governments are less than perfect.  There are people who go along with corrupt government out of fear for family, for friends, for life and limb.  There are people who must escape under cover when the situation becomes unbearable, unable to leave openly.

There are, or course, people who risk all to fight injustice.  These brave men and women choose carefully the things they protest.  They will not take the risk for things that do not matter a great deal.  Pick your battles, is the way we say it here.  These people, Nelson Mandela and others, deserve our respect and admiration.  They saw injustice, and took risks to change their corners of the world. 

Perhaps here we have an obligation to protest things that bother us.  We don’t make huge sacrifices just to voice an opinion, so perhaps we should make our voices heard amid all the clamor of other voices out there. 

But while we protest and complain, we should never forget how great our privilege is to do so.  Although you have the right to forget that, too.

For My Children

”Mom” is a title she wears with

Ease and grace,

Loving without condition

In spite of challenges

Sacrificing

Self for

A little girl.

Stealing

Tender moments and

Etching them in

Photographs to share with

Her family, who can’t

Always be

Near to watch her children

In captivating,

Energetic childhood.

Allowing affection from his mother

Leaning his tall frame down to her height

Elegant and handsome in his uniform

eXuding strength

And character.  His mother beams with

Nervous pride while he

Departs for his triumphant

Entrance into adulthood and

Real life.

Anyone can

Make it in New

York.  It takes unique

Bravery and strength to

Rise above the challenge and

Yell in the face of

Negative addictions, emerging a

New, beautiful person.

Dedicating his life to being

A person she can love,

Vowing to cherish his wife

In spite of her tiny

Dog.

Mingling with angels

In Heaven, keeping

Close watch over

His brothers

And sister on

Earth until they come to

Live in Paradise, too.

Mending

Anything and everything

Rescuing broken furniture and

Curing the ills of the building

Unsung heroes roam the

School.

Keeping busy

Expending energy with

Vigor, as if he never needs to

Rest, doing it

All if possible, and staying

Neatly out of trouble.

Dictionary

/dik-shuh-ner-ee/

A

lphabet n. She is a precocious three-year-old.  She knows all the letters and what they say.  “What does ‘cat’ start with?”  “C,” she declares, and runs to “look it up” in the old encyclopedia on the bottom shelf.

B

utterfingers n.  Consistently dropping things, pain shooting up to my shoulder.  When I finally see a doctor he sends electricity from fingertips to forearm.  He says the nerves are blocked; I need a ligament clipped before the nerves completely die.  When I come out of surgery, the incision hurts less than the blocked nerve did.  I don’t bother to fill my painkiller prescription.

C

artoon n. Mel Blanc (1908-1989) performed the voices of Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, Pepe le Pew, Sylvester, Yosemite Sam, Foghorn Leghorn, and Daffy Duck.  He died in 1989, leaving a generation of cartoons speechless. 

D

ead adj. Dusty, dried roses hang from a hook in the corner of the ceiling.  They crumble under the touch even of housefly wings.  They are left over from a funeral, and no one can bear to throw them away.  A spider made his home in them once, but even the cobweb is dry and dusty now, the spider is long gone.  Sometimes red and lavender petals fall to the floor, and get swept up with the dog hair. 

E

volution n. Coke began as a medicinal concoction of cocaine and caffeine and sugar.  Early addicts must have felt fantastically energetic and productive.  It evolved from there into Coke, New Coke, and Coke Classic.  I depend on Diet Coke to get through my day.

F

ashion n. I hear compliments often about how I always look pulled together, dressed up, and fashionable.  I will tell you my secret: throw on a blazer.  That’s it.  That’s the whole secret.  A blazer turns any top and any pants into an outfit in one easy step.

G

ood adj. Good food.  Good kids.  Good sex.  Good education.  Good book.  Good movie.  Good student.  Good teacher.  Good dog.  Good day.  Good twin.  Good grief.  Good business.  Good game.  Good music.  Good loser. 

H

ungry adj. I met him on an internet dating site, and agreed to have dinner with him.  He stole my lobster off my plate and ate it.  I ate salad and breadsticks and went home hungry.  I vowed never to go on a blind date again.  My friends refer to him as “Lobster Boy.”

I

mpressionism n. Perhaps Claude Monet was actually a realist, seeing through nearsighted eyes the vague shapes and colors of distance.  His paintings inspired a movement of nearsighted artists, all painting the world in soft focus, as they saw it. 

J

oke n. I only know one good joke.  It is in American Sign Language, and makes no sense in English.  There is no written form of ASL, so I cannot tell my joke here.

K

issing v. When the boys started school, they stopped allowing goodnight kisses from me.  Kisses embarrassed them, made them look uncool, like mama’s boys.  Still little boys, they needed affection as much as they avoided it.  Still a mom, I needed affection from my little boys.  Their dad and I discovered a way to kiss them goodnight that let them look cool anyway.  We kissed our fingertips, and tapped the tops of their heads, passing kisses from lips to hands to heads.  As they grew older, the tap grew stronger—never strong enough to damage, but enough to make them laugh and keep from crossing the tenderness limit.  One of the boys laughingly avoided the tap, so we would wrestle him to the ground, giggling and shouting, at bedtime every night, trapping his hands and forcing a kiss/tap on the top of his head. 

L

ove v. A teenage couple sits on my loveseat, fighting to trap each other’s thumbs in a battle that makes them both laugh.  If she succeeds and captures his thumb, she declares a victory for herself.  If he wins, she rules the game a mismatch, and demands a rematch.  By this point system, she wins every time.  His advantages of size and strength are nothing in the face of her big blue eyes.  He loses, but he loses with good cheer because he gets to sit with a pretty girl on the loveseat.

M

yopia n. And God said, “Let glasses be invented,” and Ben Franklin invented them.  And God said, “Let soft contacts be invented,” and Otto Wichterle invented them.  Every morning I put my glasses on, or I put contacts in my eyes, and God and I both see that it is good.

N

o adv. When our granddaughter was two, and behaving like a typical terrible two-year-old, her mother asked if she ever threw temper tantrums at our house.  We were puzzled.  We never told her “no.”  What on earth would she throw a temper tantrum about?

O

mnivorous adj.  I will read anything with words, from the meaty Jeffrey Eugenides to the whipped fluff of James Patterson.  I will even read the back of a shampoo bottle since books get ruined in the shower.

P

arenting n.      Me: “Will you do my homework for me?”

                        Son: “If I do it you won’t learn anything.”

                                    How long has he been waiting to say that to me?

Q

uasi adj.  All of the nominal power of a university resides in the president’s office.  The real power flows in the classrooms and halls, with students and professors working in concert to change minds, change methods, change the world.

R

elease v. My baby will grow up, become an adult, move out of my house.

I will let him go, unwillingly because he is my baby.  It will be the end of an era.

I will cry at my empty nest.

I will wish for his babyhood.

I will wander aimlessly through my clean, quiet house, remembering the fingerprints on furniture and walls (and footprints on the ceiling. don’t ask).

He will have children, and they will come, and I will feed them cookies and let them put dirty fingers on the coffee table, and tell them how their father got footprints on the ceiling.

And I will laugh when they try it at home.

S

platter v. My granddaughter drops her water cup, murky brown from rinsing her paintbrush in it.  My kitchen wall now looks like a splatter painting by Jackson Pollock.  She giggles and wants to splash more paint on the wall.  Maybe I should have her sign my wall with one of her markers.

T

hought n. As I sit in meditation, I notice thoughts rise and fall in no particular pattern: only vague impressions of ideas remain in the ridges of the gray matter in my brain.  Sometimes the ideas are good, but I never remember them clearly.

U

vula n.  What is that little hangy-down thingy in the back of my mouth?

V

illain n. Fantasy novels make everything very clear.  The good guys display every virtue, and no vices.  The bad guys, usually in positions of power, slaughter and imprison innocents by the dozen.  Fantasy makes perfect escape literature, showing the world in stark relief of black and white, with no complicated grayscale.  Would that real life were so easy.

W

ar n.  I have two sons in the Army.  They volunteered to risk life and limb for the freedom of people around the world.  Military moms beam with pride at the honor and courage of our sons, but we worry, a lot.

X

-ray n.  Dr. Seuss says, “X is always for ‘x-ray’”  I would not dream of proving the good doctor wrong.

Y

es adv.  Will you marry me?  Am I pregnant?  Will this hurt?  Is there a cure?  Are you mad at me?  Can we get a dog?  Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?  Have you found Jesus?  Would you like to dance?

Z

apper n.  The spring air whispers softly through the newly leafed trees.  The night smells of lilacs and apple blossoms.  The only sound is the occasional sizzle of a dying moth.

Loss

            The moment a woman suspects she might be pregnant, she begins to love that baby.  She may give up her favorite vice—caffeine or nicotine, perhaps.  She eats healthy food in place of junk, maybe.  She starts taking vitamins more consistently.  She wears her seatbelt in the car, even if she hates it.  Why?  Because she knows hers is not the only life affected by what she does.  Everything she takes into her body, or puts her body into, has an effect on someone else now.  She can’t pretend to be her own person anymore. 

            One day she is sure.  She tells her husband, and he changes his behavior, too.  He notices how small and fragile his wife is.  He spoils her, takes care of her, coaxes her to take care of herself.  He loves her more than he did before, because she is building this whole new person that is also a part of him.  He makes her feel so loved and cherished that she begins to wonder why she didn’t get pregnant months ago.

            The two of them start to talk.  They talk about names, about money, about how to arrange the furniture to accommodate a tiny person.  They debate the merits of a family bed, private preschools, the children’s program at their church.  They laugh over his conviction that the baby will be a boy, and commiserate over her conviction that the baby will be a hellion. 

            It’s too early to tell their families yet, but they talk about how to tell, and when to tell, and wonder what their reactions will be.  Is this a long anticipated baby that the entire family will be thrilled to welcome?  Is this a complete surprise that will shock the family into a few—rare!—moments of quiet?  Will the baby’s older siblings be delighted or jealous?  Will the baby’s grandparents laugh with delight over a first grandchild?  Or with outright hilarity that she is forty (40!) and pregnant, again?

            It’s a secret the two parents share.  They wink at each other when people talk about babies, sneak smiles at tiny people in the grocery store, walk slowly past the baby department at Target, holding hands.  It’s a lovely secret that they whisper about late at night after the kids are in bed and the dogs are asleep.  They plan and dream together, and they love the tiny mass of cells that will become their baby.

            Sometimes, at five or six weeks, or eight or nine, there are tiny signs that all is not well.  These become unmistakable signs that this baby will not be coming into the family.  This realization is devastatingly, wrenchingly sad.  She cries, and he holds her in helpless frustration.  He can’t fix this for her, and he can’t fix it for himself, either. 

            Their dreams die without a chance to really live.  They are sad for all the things they will never get to do: the cradle they will never buy, the room they will not repaint, the swing set they will not build, the first date they will never meet (and perhaps, the low-heeled shoes she will never wear).  Their hearts break over the loss of this unborn person.

            If this were an older person, the neighbors would bring dinners in, the family would gather, friends would call from all over the world.  But this is not an older person.  This grieving couple is completely isolated.  This is a new secret they share.  No one knows, so no one cares.  No one cries with them or visits them; no one sends sweet cards or kind words.  The world goes on without pause, carrying these two broken people along in its wake. 

            Somehow, they put on public faces and go out to meet the world.  There are bills to pay and jobs to do and life to live.  They stumble through those first days and weeks without really noticing.  They say nothing to their friends and families.  This society does not discuss such things.  This society pushes death and loss into the background, out of sight and out of mind.  There is no language to talk about this loss.  If they did talk, their loss would be minimized, belittled, brushed aside as a small glitch in the universe.  “There will be other babies.”  “It’s probably for the best.”  “It’s nature’s way of taking care of problems.”  Dreading these awful words of sympathy, the grieving parents say nothing. 

            But their sadness is real, their tears are real, their aching hearts and empty arms are real.  Millions of couples know this same heartbreak, these same dying dreams.  They may never know which of their friends most understands, but someone certainly does.  Someone knows just how bad this feels.  They are not alone, not really.

Reason NOT to Marry and Older Man

Today I am mad at him.

Not because of anything he said.  He’s always kind.

Not because he did anything awful.  He never does.

Not because he has quirks and foibles.  Everyone does.

I’m mad because he is going to leave me.  He won’t leave me today or tomorrow, probably not for years to come.  But eventually, he will leave.

He will leave because he is much older than I.  He will leave because, statistically, men die at a younger age than women.  He will leave because he is less healthy than I.  He will leave because his father left his mother way too early.  He will leave because he is not immortal.  In all likelihood, he will die, leaving me alone for 20 years or more. 

Every sign of middle age scares me.  Every forgetful moment or repeated story reminds me.  Every aching joint or numb foot, every threat of high blood pressure, every gray hair and every lost hair angers me.  Every birthday pulls us inevitably closer to the day he leaves.    

I can manage all practical matters surrounding his death.  I can ensure adequate life insurance, buy burial plots, make wills and talk about funeral plans.  I can plan to support myself, make arrangements for the disposition of property, pay off my house and get out of debt.  I can develop a relationship with a grief counselor, increase my faith in an afterlife, pray for strength.

There is no way to prepare for the devastating loss of him.  His DVDs will gather dust, his bookmark won’t move, his glasses will sit untouched in the car.  No one will tell me stories late at night or yell at my shoes.  I will have to learn to make perfect pasta al dente and grill a perfect burger myself. 

He sends the children out the door with the words, “Be careful.”  Everyone knows he means, “I love you.”  He never fails, never forgets.  If someone sneaks out without telling him he sends a text message, “Be careful.”  “Come back,” he means, “You are important.  You matter to me.”  After he leaves, “Be careful” will only mean “be careful.” 

He plays devil’s advocate for all political issues, skillfully and convincingly arguing both sides.  He is annoyingly even-handed and fair-minded, willingly discussing the logic on both sides, and calling out the silliness and stupidity.  When he leaves, I will struggle to see the other sides and different points of view.

He teaches.  I’ve always had a thing for teachers.

He carries soda cans all over the house, needs help to match patterned shirts and ties, turns the light on too early in the morning and off too early at night, leaves socks on the floor and dishes in the sink, thinks four is the correct number of shoes to own, and eats sardines in mustard sauce (shudder!).  He ignores my faults and idiosyncrasies as easily as he ignores bugs on the sidewalk, so I am learning to ignore his.

When he leaves, the chair on the other side of the table will be too empty, the couch will be too long, and the bed will be too cold.  My house will suddenly be too big, but the world will become too small. 

I am mad that he will leave me.  I cry when I hear the songs he’s chosen for his funeral, in anticipation of the real funeral.  Some days, my heart breaks for my own loss.  I lie awake at night, listening to him breathe, dreading all the long, silent nights ahead. 

Today is worth tomorrow’s pain.  He is here, he loves me, he is mine.  I will save up all of the todays, and bring them out one at a time during the tomorrows, chasing pain and bringing remembered love.  

Silence

Silence is a rare thing in our modern world.  Music plays in every public space.  Televisions play with no one to watch them “just for the background noise.”  The ubiquitous iPod plays noise continuously in every ear, lest there be a moment of silence anywhere.  I would argue that silence is as precious as it is rare.

            No television presides in my living room.  Or my family room.  No radio, either.  There is a piano, but it will not play itself.  Noise here connects directly to a person—laughing, talking, playing the piano, pages turning.  People can hear each other easily; if I have to raise my voice to be heard, iPods must be turned down or off.  Here one can carry a thought to its logical (or illogical) conclusion. 

            This society looks askance on my choice not to have a television.  “It must be really quiet in your house” people commonly say.  Rarely do they ask what I do with my time.  But to have no background noise?  That’s weird. 

            Perhaps I put myself at a disadvantage.  I cannot concentrate with a lot of background noise; I am easily distracted.  I have no practice in ignoring noise.  But I can concentrate for a long time.  I can spend two solid hours on one task.  Young people seem to be timed to a television schedule: eight minutes before a commercial comes on, eight minutes of concentration.  A junior high school teacher says he must change topics every seven minutes or he starts losing the focus of his class.  He attributes this to television, and the eight minute maximum on any one thought.

            Music in stores and restaurants is designed specifically to discourage careful thought.  Impulse buys, eat and run, spend more money in less time—music manipulates moods and encourages the flow of the almighty dollar.  Of course businesses want to make money, but does that give them the right to manipulate their clients through sound?  Perhaps being aware of this manipulation mitigates some of its effects, but the sound remains.

            Constant and universal sonic input calls for more decibels to be heard over the ambient racket.  More decibels leads to greater damage to cochlea, and hearing loss, leads to a need for more decibels . . . .  Our hearing is damaged by all the noise.  Silence does no damage to the physical ear.

            The silence of meditation, of prayer, nurtures the soul and mind.  Sitting in meditation, quieting the mind and the body, provides a measure of tranquility to carry through life, easing the difficult patches by calming the spirit.  Spaces and silence in lectures or sermons gives a moment for the thought to settle, be remembered, to stick as it were. 

            Silence as a common good or as an experience is essential to the peaceful inner life of people.  Airspace unencumbered by sound waves is hard to come by.  It must be cherished and preserved wherever possible.

Time Capsules

If I were making a time capsule to be opened by my great grandchildren, I would include:

A book (who won last year’s Pulitzer?)

A movie poster (something recent from Hallmark classics)

Heirloom vegetable seeds (even if they won’t grow anymore)

Pictures of my children at their most adorable

Picture of my dogs, all freshly bathed and looking darling

Paint chips that I keep saying I’ll use to decorate my house someday

Transcript of Thomas Monson lecture

Recent issue of Time and/or National Geographic

If my best friend were making the capsule, and she wanted my great grandchildren to know what I’m really like (not what I pretend I’m like), she would include:

A formulaic fantasy novel (which is what I actually read)

Movie poster from “The Avengers” or some other comic book movie (my favorite movies)

Chocolate wrappers (I don’t even eat heirloom vegetables, let alone grow them)

Pictures of my kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes

Pictures of my dogs all lounging on the couch with muddy feet

Clorox wipes, because wiping grape soda off the kitchen chairs is as close as I get to decorating

Transcript of the K-Bull morning show (makes me laugh every morning)

Recent issue of InStyle and/or People StyleWatch

My high heeled hiking boots (yep, I really own such a thing)

Ticket stubs from “Menopause, the Musical” (all women of a certain age must see this show)

I need a more intelligent life, or friends who are better liars.

Not an Endorsement of Any Political Candidate

If Mitt Romney becomes President of the United States, will President Monson become an official spiritual advisor?  This question, at first glance, seems simple.  But the more I think about it, the more complicated it gets.  Here are some things I’ve been thinking about since this question was posed:

The LDS church has been very clear about its political neutrality.  It does not endorse any political party, nor does it reject any political party currently in the USA (I suspect it would decry a political party bent on annihilation of a race of people, but I don’t know that).  The church officially encourages its members to participate in local politics, taking advantage of all opportunities to be heard, including local caucuses, voting, and writing to legislators.  Both the Democrats and the Republicans, according to the LDS church leadership, have good and bad policies, good and bad politicians.  Members are encouraged to prayerfully choose candidates that will do the most good for the community and country.

            Does prayer help in deciding for whom to vote?  I believe that God loves His children as much today as He did in the time of the Old Testament.  He has not abandoned His children to muddle through as best they can.  Revelation can and does continue on Earth today.  Prayers are answered regularly and clearly, even with answers as specific as how to vote in local elections. 

            Revelation is given to those for whom it is relevant.  I will not, for example, be given revelation about how my friend should raise her children.  That is not my jurisdiction, and not my business.  Each person gets revelation that is relevant and important to his or her own life and responsibilities.  Sometimes the answer may be, “It doesn’t matter.  Either choice would be fine.”  Sometimes the Lord has specific direction for a particular situation.

            Based on these beliefs, I think the real spiritual advisor to Mitt Romney, should he become President of the United States, would be God Himself.  It is not President Monson’s responsibility to govern the country.  He has other responsibilities.  But the US President is certainly entitled to revelation pertaining to his job, as is anyone else.

            I believe this is true no matter who is in office.  Any sincere prayer, accompanied by real faith in the power of God to reveal His will, is answered.  The trick is having that real faith, truly believing the answer will come, and then recognizing the answer when it does come.  A person of faith, willing to ask for and accept the guidance of the Lord, may be the best choice for any political office or other position of leadership.  

Chocolate vs. Shoes

Chocolate or Shoes?

Chocolate Pros: best cure for fear (see Harry Potter); good cure for bad days, too; dark is good for your health; easy to grab a candy bar when time is at a premium; Cadbury crème eggs; can be covered in candy so it won’t melt in your hands; don’t have to share it with the dogs; excellent source of cocoa, one of the major food groups; Ghiradelli dark chocolate/raspberry squares.

Chocolate Cons: so hard to stop at the one square that’s actually beneficial to health; calories, calories, calories; the truly good stuff is hard to find; children can sniff out the stash no matter where you hide it; melts in warm environments; even though cocoa comes from a plant, chocolate does not count as a vegetable.

Shoe Pros: happy feet make happy hearts; really fabulous heels inspire confidence; shoe size stays the same no matter how much weight you lose or gain; come in all colors; many styles to choose from; never need ironing; great shoes completely transform a simple jeans/sweater outfit; excellent result of retail therapy.

Shoe Cons: high heels and ballet flats are equally bad for feet; hard to store in large numbers; need to be repaired or replaced alarmingly often; a good fit is hard to find.

Verdict: Obviously chocolate shoes are not the answer.  You can’t wear something that melts, and you can’t eat something that’s been on your feet.  Choosing one or the other is impossible.  One must have both in order to be truly happy.  Luckily, shoe stores are often in malls, where one can also find Mrs. Field’s chocolate chip cookies, Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory fudge, and See’s which gives free samples.  Happy shopping!

Curing "D"eafness and Curing "d"eafness

I have never been deaf—my hearing is reasonably good (although I can’t hear the phone through my right ear, that’s easy enough to compensate for).  I, like most hearing people, was unaware there was a culture associated with  American Sign Language until I started studying the language under non-hearing professors.  Some aspects of this culture are completely foreign to me, even annoying.  For example, why can’t anything EVER start or end on time?  Other things, while different, seem charming.  Friends are greeted with warm hugs, for example.  As I learn the language, I feel more and more comfortable mingling in this unique culture.  This gives me a perspective on this culture unshared by many, neither hearing people who aren’t aware of its existence, nor non-hearing who grew up immersed in it.

A friend asked me if there should be a cure for Deafness, and I had to think about it.  There are two questions here, and I’m not sure even my friend recognized the second, hidden question.

Should there be a cure for deafness?  Well, obviously there should.  It would be lovely if we could cure age-related deafness.  Grandparents should revel in the laughter of their beloved grandchildren.  People who have always found joy in music should not lose that in old age.  We should applaud efforts to cure deafness in late-deafened teens and adults, who grew up hearing and lost that sense due to accident or illness.  In a world where the technology is available, if infant and imperfect, to correct this type of hearing loss, it is silly to expect people to begin again, learning a visual language after serious illness or in extreme old age.  That’s the second question.

The first question, and the one I believe my friend meant to ask, is whether there should be a cure for Deafness.  The capital “D” indicates a cultural affiliation.  In some ways, it’s like asking if there should be a cure for Italian-ness or BibleBeltNess.  No one needs to be cured of their cultural identity.  Differences should be celebrated and embraced, cultures shared and communication facilitated by mutual good humor and patience.

There is technology available now that can offer a semblance of hearing, if it works, and if the patient is willing to do the work to learn to use it.  It is by no means perfect, nor does it work in all cases.  The viral video everyone saw of a woman hearing her children’s voices for the first time was staged—it doesn’t actually work that way.  This technology, called a cochlear implant, is the first prosthetic device that replaces one of the human senses. 

I will probably offend all of my Deaf friends and most of my hearing friends when I say this research should be continued, and this technology should be improved, and should be used.  Until it is closer to perfect, I do not believe children should be implanted unless the child has no residual hearing at all, in either ear, and perhaps also has poor vision. 

Should there be a cure for deafness?  My answer is a resounding, “Yes.”  Should there be a cure for Deafness?  My answer is a qualified, “Maybe.” 

Guest Blogger: Marcus

 Marcus wrote this in 2008.  It's still funny, and relevant, today.

Your cash is gone

Your grades have bombed

Can’t trim your nails nor mow your lawn

Your eyes are red

You look half dead

Never remember what you said

Seem hella old

Can’t breathe in cold

Holy crap, Kid, you smell like mold

Get beat by thugs

Food tastes like bugs

So next time just say no to drugs

Confessions

• I hate doing dishes.
• Somehow, kids moving out does not result in fewer dirty dishes.
• There are usually dirty dishes in my sink.
• Sometimes I dislike being a cat owner.
• Anyone want a big, white cat?
• No, really, do you want a cat?
• I don't miss having small children.
• I don't miss active parenting.
• I love my child free home.
• I still spoil my grandchildren, though.
• Grandchildren go home at the end of the day.
• I'm writing this while sitting in class.
• The lecture today is about sex (it's a marriage class).
• I'm bored.
• Does that mean I'm really old?
• Or that my professor is really dull?
• I love urban fantasy novels.
• They have no literary value whatsoever.
• I tell people I love Hemingway and Steinbeck so I sound smart.
• I'm addicted to caffeine.
• That's not a confession, just a statement.
• I'm heartily sick of reading books by Harlan Lane.
• Someone please write a different book about Deaf culture that my professors can assign.
• I successfully took up an entire class period confessing.

Sex Education: Where and When?

Sex education is so backward in this state.  We pass laws about what the schools can and can’t teach.  We spend countless hours discussing whose values should be taught in schools.  We say schools can choose, based on the community values where they live, whether human sexuality will be taught in schools.  None of this makes any sense.  Here’s a thought: why don’t we, as parents, teach human sexuality at home?  Then you can pass on correct information and your own values about sex and ethical, moral behavior.  A subject as fraught with emotion as sex cannot possibly be taught effectively in a classroom with twenty or more students.  A subject as prone to promoting embarrassment as curiosity should be taught in a more private setting, where questions and concerns can be addressed without having to admit in front of peers that they don’t know everything.  The home seems ideally suited to teaching sex, morality, contraception, ethics, etc.

In my home, we taught human sexuality in all its aspects.  My kids understood from a very young age that any question would be answered.  A couple times (mid-grocery store, for example) I put off answering until the setting was more appropriate, but then I made certain I brought up the question again.  We talked about contraceptives of all sorts, human behavior, emotions, morals, and the basic biology about where babies come from.  We talked about the values of my family and my religion.  We talked about other values or standards of behavior.  We talked and talked and talked. 

There were a few vitally important points:

1)      Don’t have sex with people you aren’t married to.  It’s not just pre-marital sex I wanted the kids to avoid, but any extra-marital sex, even after they were married.

2)      Sex is supposed to feel good.  That’s how the species survives.  That’s what binds husbands and wives together.  That’s also what makes it so tempting, and why you have to be so careful about maintaining your moral boundaries.

3)      You can die from extra-marital sex.  Protected sex makes it safer, but it is not safe.  Again, you can die from extra-marital sex.  Okay, okay, not from sex itself, but the risk of deadly diseases transmitted by sex is very real.

My kids grew up, made a few mistakes in life, tested all sorts of boundaries, and came out of adolescence pretty well.  Nobody got pregnant, nobody died, nobody caught any STDs.  Trouble of all sorts was brought to me for advice and help, because we had established a relationship where any topic, even the tough ones, even the embarrassing ones, could be discussed.

I would contend that schools cannot be nearly that effective, no matter what curriculum they use.  A two-week unit on human sexuality can never replace a lifetime of conversation between parent and child.  I am not suggesting schools stop teaching human sexuality at all, because not every parent will teach, and it must be taught somewhere.  I am suggesting that you get to your kids first, they hear it from you first, and they learn that the real information and education happens at home.

Politics That Scare Me

1. Hearing either the Legislative branch or Executive branch of the Federal government vow to block anything and everything the other proposes.  This is not thoughtful government trying to make things better for the nation.  This is a power struggle that reminds me of two dogs peeing in each other's yards.

2. Extreme conservativism looks very much like fascism.  Extreme liberalism looks very much like socialism.  Fascism and socialism look very much alike.

3. People who only vote in Presidential elections.  In truth, Congress can overturn any decision the President makes with a 2/3 majority vote.  The President can never overturn anything decided by such a super-majority in Congress.  Your local leaders affect your community more than the Federal government.  Too many people don't even know who represents them, let alone thoughtfully vote for them.

4. The party not currently in power always wants to choose a Presidential candidate based on who can take out the incumbent, not based on who would be best for the country.

5. Refusal on the part of elected officials to work cooperatively with anyone from another political party.  Working together is the only way to be the "best we can be."

6. Anything that looks or sounds like a threat of violence toward anyone else: showing a map of opponents sited in crosshairs; threatening violence, even in jest, over restaurant locations (yes, this actually happened right here in Utah); shooting politicians in malls; etc.

7. Anyone who assumes that I agree or disagree, based on any of the items here, with any of the comments that are bound to be posted below or on Facebook.  (Okay, this is not so much scary as it is a disclaimer.  I still won't admit on the internet who I vote for.)

Modesty Principles: Good or Evil?

Appearance is not the most important attribute a young woman has.  She will be beautiful to those who love her regardless of her similarity (or lack thereof) to the models in magazines.  She must be encouraged to cultivate knowledge, artistic talent, dignity and grace.  She must learn that she is an important member of her community, that she has something to contribute, and that she has an obligation to make that contribution.  She should learn to change a tire, cook a meal, soothe a crying child, and replace a faulty light switch.

In all of this, she must also be taught that her body can do amazing things, and is not something to be ashamed of.  She must learn to take care of the marvelous machine she has been given, to keep it as healthy as possible.  Her body is not perfect (no one’s is), but she can learn to value the strengths rather than dwell on the shortcomings.    She must learn to eat well, exercise, sleep enough.  She must learn to protect her skin from the ravages of sun and wind, to protect herself from germs, and to protect her self-image from the onslaught of airbrushed photographs she sees every day. 

Respect for herself and her own body may inspire her to modesty.  She may need guidance to learn what styles are appropriate in different settings.  She must learn that modern society does not allow nudity in public, and there are certain limits in dress that cannot be crossed without incurring repercussions from society or the law.  The principle of modesty is not moot, even in our forgiving society.

While we teach modesty and respect for her body, we must be careful not to make her feel responsible for the thoughts or behavior of boys.  Young men are naturally interested in her changing body, and may be inclined to stare at any parts of her they can see.  This is not her fault or her responsibility.  Men can learn to control their eyes and minds; certainly they can control their behavior.  An affront to her morality, violent or more subtle, is never her fault, and she must not feel guilt over the bad behavior of anyone else.

In practical terms, what does this mean for your daughters?

Perhaps it means that respect for herself and a desire to please her God influences her choice of clothing.  Perhaps it means she learns not to offend the standards of the household while she is still living in her parents’ home.  Perhaps it also means she learns that yoga pants are acceptable in a yoga class, but not at church.  Swimsuits are appropriate at the beach, but not at dinner.  Overt sexuality in dress and demeanor send a message to others that she may not wish to send. 

Our daughters are not responsible for the behavior of our sons, but they are responsible for their own behavior.  Learning to be modest does not have to mean learning that her body is only a temptation to evil.  Teaching modesty should not be about helping boys behave.  Teaching modesty should be about helping her become the woman she wants to be, her best self, whoever that turns out to be.