All I have to say ...

Is yay! For snow.

Please also note the addition to the Blog Parade ... Into the Deep is a bog about the "nunderful" experience that is religious life ... written by Brittany, a postulant with the Salesian Sisters.

Boys Should Be Boys

I nanny a little boy. His parents are very concerned that he grow up to be a Boy, capital "B." So he is not allowed to play with his sister's dolls. When we do colouring homework for his kindergarten class, I steer him towards blue and green. "Pink crayons," I explain, "are for girls."

Those are the directions of his parents, and I happily follow them. He is their child, and I help raise him as they see fit. Would I be as "restrictive" with my own children? Maybe not. But perhaps the anxieties associated with parenthood would change my mind.

The November issue of the Atlantic carries a truly heart-rending story about a little boy who demands to be treated as a little girl. His parents, after fighting for a while, give in. Yes. Brandon, at the age of eight, is allowed to choose his gender.

Can a child that young understand the implications of his choice? Does he even know what it means to be a boy, or a girl? For "best results" trans-gender children are offered hormone therapy, and a course of medical intervention which ultimately leaves them sterile.

Eric Vilain, geneticist, remarks: "We don’t know the long-term effects of making these decisions for the child. We’re playing God here, a little bit.” That understatement is in a class of its own.

The Atlantic asks: have the limits of child indulgence been stretched too far? The problem is not just child indulgence. It's self-indulgence.

Adults are unwilling to deny their children anything they would allow for themselves. And these days, adults allow themselves everything. Mental illness is now "lifestyle." Psychiatric disorders are not treated and overcome, but accommodated. And embraced.

When the APA took homosexuality off its list of mental disorders, their decision was not based on any scientific research . It was acquiesence to the culture of "you're okay, I'm okay."

It is down hill from there.

From homosexuality to polygamy to bestiality to pederasty and pedophilia. Why should it be illegal for Joe to marry Bob? They love each other! Why shouldn't Joe be able to marry Linda, Trish, and Mary Ann, all at the same time? They all love each other! And why shouldn't Joe be able to marry his pet bull dog? They're best friends after all!

And if an eight year old child is mature enough to change his gender ... why couldn't the same eight year old be deemed mature enough to "choose" a sexual relationship with a grown man?

Indulgence is the most insidious form of abuse.

Walmart and the Apocalypse

I generally love Walmart parking lots. Even in the early morning hours, they are never empty. Truckers, seniors in their RVs, and night shifters all take advantage of the 24 hour access to bathrooms, Peeps and well-lit parking space. It's sort of a comforting thing.

During my idle youth, I heard tales of Nostradamus. Very rarely I read the scary parts of the Book of Revelation. More usual were disaster movies about invading aliens, nuclear winter or on-coming asteroids. Whenever the latest tid-bit about the Certain Demise of Planet Earth began to get under my skin a little, I'd quickly remind myself of the fact: Wal-mart won't let it happen:

"Wal-mart, Coca Cola and Reiters Dairy Products Inc., stand to lose far too many customers should humanity be wiped out. Somehow, the corporations that run the world will pool their resources and save the day." As a twelve year old I was already convinced of the omniscient power of transnational conglomerates. (Now, of course, I realize that God is the omniscient one, and He will end the world whenever He pleases.)

This afternoon, I made a run to Walmart. As I was walking from my car, I realized that the parking lot was full of people and empty of interaction. There was banging of trunks and car doors, and rustling of plastic bags. But no one talked, or even looked, at anyone else. The fellow behind me must have seen it too, because he spoke up in a loud voice: "Ever feel like you could drop dead in a place, and no one would notice?"

We all laughed our little nervous laughs.

Everyone living alone in their three feet of personal space. Everyone looking past each other. That's the real end of the world. Or as Billy Bob Thorton in Armageddon would say:

"It's what we call a global killer. The end of mankind. Doesn't matter where it hits, nothing would survive, not even bacteria."

Wal-mart can't stop that kind of disaster.

The Poorest of the Poor

This is my post for the 2008 Blog Action Day.

I've heard it said that Americans don't know what real poverty is. Our poor people are over-fed and successfully persue ownership of consumer merchandise, including "bling" and designer sneakers.

But I don't buy that argument.

What is real poverty?

Real poverty is "learned helplessness." A sense of permanent vulnerability, lost autonomy ... so destructive to the human spirit. Real poverty is isolation, social or spiritual.

There are a lot of people living in complete destitution, who are much better off than your typical middle-class soccer mom.

The Missionaries of Charity work here in America, supposedly the richest nation on the face of the earth. But Calcutta does not have us beat, when it comes to being poorest of the poor.

The 50 People Who Ruined Britain

That strangely funny Englishman, Quentin Letts, has published a list of the 50 people he feels have destroyed his motherland.

Princess Diana is on the list, because she robbed the country of its famous stoicism and turned the people into weepy, weak-kneed emoters.

#22 is Richard Brunstrom, a Constable who so relishes his job, he lies in wait for speeders on his days off.

Kenneth Baker passed a bill outlawing violent dogs, but he followed that up with a bill forbidding the switching of violent school children.

Richard Dawkins, the atheist who protests too much, is listed.

But my favourite nominee is Graham Kendrick, the author of hymns such as "Shine, Jesus, Shine." His 400+ "happy-clappy" songs are a "pestilence" which have dragged adult worship into moronic self-obsession.

I'm not sure Great Britian is ruined yet; getting there perhaps.

I wonder what a list of the 50 people who've ruined America might look like.

Mmm, Pie ...

The junior Senator from Illinois likes pie. Sweet Potato is his favourite apparently. I've looked at this over and over again to see if maybe there's some kind of underlying message he's trying to deliver ... like "pie" is a metaphor for affordable health care or green energy or something. But no. As far as I can tell, the Senator just likes pie.

Run, Fat Girl, Run

Alright, I'm not fat. Not even plump, really. My battle with the pernicious wasting disease left me 45 lbs lighter. "Wow, that's better than Jenny Craig," was the response of one friend long time not seen.

I am not fat, but I am not fit. The title of this post is a reference to the Simon Pegg movie "Run, Fat Boy, Run," a rude film I will not link to, in which Simon Pegg decides to run a marathon.

See, I too, am running a marathon. Do not laugh.

I'm eyeing the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC., one year from now.

My goodness, it takes work. So far, the jelly like waddling has given way to a more athletic stride, and now I can run 3 miles without stopping.

It's a start, isn't it.

How To Profit From the Rapture

Among the beliefs a Christian might espouse, the Rapture strikes me as one of the more peculiar. The idea, I gather, is that believers will be saved from the mess of things described in the Apocalypse. It requires a certain degree of denial about who God is and how He operates, I think.

Nevermind that God did not spare His only Son; the wounds that continue to be born by the baptized make it clear enough that Christianity is not about freedom from suffering.


Protestants, of course, have been selling books about the end times for ages. Now the "left behinders" are getting into it. Of course, I oppose making a profit off of someone else's delusion. The tongue-in-cheekiness of some of this is really rather amusing. From How To Profit From the Rapture:

"Sure, the rivers and seas will run with blood, locusts will swarm, mountains will move [...] But for the five billion of us left behind, the post-Rapture world will be a time of even more unique investment opportunities. "

Some people have apparently already gotten in to the post-Rapture business. The Post Rapture Pet Care company in the UK comforts customers:

"Have no fear! We at Post Rapture Pet Care are confirmed atheists and as such will be part of the left behind when the time comes. Just because we are atheists doesn't mean we are not animal lovers. We adore all kind of pets and would love to look after your pets after you are gone."

Soon Jews, Catholics, Muslims, Hindus, less-ardent Protestants, and many others certain to be left behind will be asking their "saved" friends if they can have their car/cubicle/ipod touch after the rapture.

Do You Love God?

That is the question.

The baby asks me about God. "How do you get to Heaven?"

"You have to love God."

"Oh."

Silence.

"Do you love God?"

I say yes, of course. But then I ask myself. Or I ask Him. "Do I love you?"

That is the question. St. Therse says the desire is sufficient.

God Does Not Unring Bells

I was watching EWTN a long time ago, and Mother Angelica was on. She was talking about how when her mother died, she cried for three days straight. And about how one lady was scandalized by her tears: "You, a woman of faith!?" As if Mother A's great faith should have inoculated her from grief.

Christians have a right to grieve. We should never grieve like those who have no hope, of course. St. Paul insists. Our faith should give us courage and joy, even in the darkest of hours.

We do have the consolation that it will be alright in the end. But we do not have the consolation that it will ever be the same. Not even God puts Humpty-Dumpty back together again, exactly as he was before. You might say, no, God will put him back again even better. But the people of the kingdom loved Humpty the way he was. That is the way they knew him, and that is the way they want to know him ever after.

We want things as they were. But everything has consequence. Sin has consequence. And God does not wipe it all away. He can bring glory and good out of it. But He does not make it as if it never happened.

Christ Himself, in glory, still wears a pair of nail holes in his hands. A cynic might accuse God of keeping them as a "reminder to us of our sins." I choose to believe they are a monument of His victory.

Not even in His own Body does God unring bells. In Heaven we will understand and see, but here our vision is cloudy, and we have a right to our tears. Detachment hurts.

Outside In and Downside Up

When you have the sniffles, nothing looks right.

When I was younger, I played with the kid next door. One day his father fell down and broke his back; he lived, but he was paralyzed from the waist down. It was hard on that family. They had to move away, because their house was full of stairs.

My parents or my friends would occasionally bring it up ... and I was impressed by the suddenness of the lurch their life had taken ... but, it never failed. After exchanging mutual expressions of amazement at the badness of it all, the same phrase would always float, unspoken into our conversations: Well, he's still alive anyway.

The concept was as good as fact to me: Amputations, MS, hysterectomy ... what did it matter. You're alive, aren't you? That was the important thing. On all of those medical shows, the families sit nervously in the waiting room. "Will she be okay?" they ask Dr. Whomever. "Yes. There will be [insert complication] but yes, she will be okay." And family, (and viewers,) are relieved.

If you're alive, you're okay. It's true. If you love a sick person, you don't care so much about whatever damage is done to them. What matters (most) to you is that they are alive to you. But what about the person themselves?

Since I was diagnosed, I've had another look. Sometimes the prospect of living can be more of a challenge than the prospect of dying. Sometimes its harder to live than to die.

I have new found empathy. Brownie points for chronic illness, I guess.