War Zone

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I was sitting in a small hermitage in the middle of the woods outside of Philadelphia this weekend, on one of the short writing retreats that I am taking to help find time to write this book. Sipping a glass of wine and reading a book, I was enjoying the sound of crickets and the leaves rustle when the still night air was punctured with an explosion. That was followed by three more quick pops in a row, and thunderous booms.

Fireworks.

It took me a few minutes to see them through the trees, but there they were, interrupting my Zen-Lord-help-me-be-in-this-moment reverie. The windows of my cabin shook, my heart started to race. I could feel the explosions in the floor and walls. Then, just as suddenly as they had begun, stillness.

I fucking hate fireworks.

After a few seconds of confusion, I knew what was happening in the still woods around me. I had a word for it and knew that it would eventually come to an end.

You know who doesn’t have a word for the chaos? Wildlife. Terrified birds who literally drop dead out of the sky every year due to fucking fireworks. Deer trying to protect their babies from this unseen, booming assailant. The dogs and cats in houses who cower in closets, shaking, long after the onslaught stops.

If you like explosions, move to a warzone and take your damn fireworks with you.

Emma (sometime in 2005 we think – October 15, 2013)

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IMG_3938Emma.

We knew she was the right dog for our household when she and Clyde met for the first time and she snapped at him when he tried to mount her at the skeevy insurance/dog rescue office where we adopted her. She had been adopted as a puppy and returned to the shelter when she got “too big.” But she was perfect.

Emma  was boisterous and playful. A little instigator, who would drag things off of shelves and counters, only to let Clyde do the eating and take the blame.

She loved toys and she didn’t like to share them. After she and Clyde ripped open their Christmas passages, we would soon hear Clyde whining and inevitably find Emma with a stockpile, either on her bed or in her mouth. I think the most she ever fit in there at once was three giant squeaky toys.Emma on Chair 1 (Jun 25, 2006)

She knew how to make herself comfortable.

She loved to give kisses and sniff our faces. Sometimes she’d follow that with a burp, for good measure.

When she played with Clyde or Bradley and was really into it, she made this high-pitched groaning sound, like she was ululating. It was her expression of joy and it grew to be ours, as well.

She kept a close eye on the trees for birds and squirrels.She was always on high alert for potential yard intruders, and let us know with an insistent bark when something wasn’t right. In true herding dog form, she policed conflicts to ensure that all parties pawed the line, even when the cats tussled upstairs, Emma offered her faithful guidance from one or two floors below.

Emma and Isaiah

When we cried, she licked our tears.

She cuddled, within reason. Eventually she’d just up and leave, heaving herself onto the floor with a sigh. She needed her alone time. But when Bradley laid on top of her for hours on end, or buried in behind her on the couch, Emma was a patient pillow.

Emma was a true lady. Sweet and deeply invested in doing the right thing. She never whined to go out (which we wouldn’t have minded at all) and instead relied on Clyde to whine at us on her behalf when she needed to relieve herself. Even on the table at the vet’s office, before that final injection, she crossed her dainty paws as she tried to relax.IMG_2920

Looking back, we can see that her last few weeks were hard, but we didn’t know she was so sick until that last day, when her face and her labored breathing told us it was time. It was as if she hadn’t meant to intrude on our day, but she needed help that only we could provide.

We will miss you, darling girl. You were an amazing, lovely, sweet, and happy dog. Bradley is doing her best to cheer Clyde up, but you have left a hole in our lives and hearts that will take much time and many tears to fill. We love you, and we will see you again.

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confession

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Yesterday, I choked up watching Antoinette Tuff describe how she had anchored herself in Christ and reached out to a heavily armed and deeply depressed young man who had walked into an elementary school and made it clear that he wasn’t playing around. The gunman felt he didn’t have anything to live for and was prepared to die that day, but Tuff’s love (Tuff love, ha) saved his life and most likely countless others, as well.

Here’s my confession. While I listened to Antoinette tell her amazing story, I pictured the events unfold. And those events featured the perpetrator as a young, black, man. I don’t recall hearing any physical descriptions of the suspect. I didn’t know his name and hadn’t seen a mugshot. I was focused on Tuff’s actions, but my underlying, unconscious assumption was that she was describing interactions with a fellow African American.

When I read follow-up stories of the event this morning and saw that Michael Brandon Hill looks like me and not like Antoinette, I realized what I had done. I realized how deeply embedded my assumptions were, so deep that they hadn’t even registered as conscious casting choices, and I was utterly shamed by my racism. I am still deeply ashamed, but grateful that I recognized and confronted this sin head-on.

I accept full responsibility for my racist assumption, but I can’t help but wonder…if Michael Brandon Hill had dark skin, would his picture have been at the top of all of the news articles the last few days? Would I have been faced with more images of him if he had fit the description of my preconceived notions? Worse, was his picture there all along, but I ignored it, passed it over, because that’s not the face I was looking for?

Lord Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner.

The Past is the Present

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Eduardo Galeano’s reminder to my younger self in Open Veins of Latin America is difficult: “Slave ships no longer ply the ocean. Today the slavers operate from the ministries of labor. African wages, European prices.” (279) It is true that I cannot change the past. What I can try to do is give my raced-as-white-euro-american-blond-haired-green-eyed son a lens through which to look at the world that acknowledges the depressing realities of the past and the hope for a reconciled future that we are offered when we join with others to follow Jesus.

Vegan vs. Meat Eater

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This sums up some good reasons for leaving animals off of your plate. While health and environmental factors played a small part in my decision to stop eating animals, the horrific cruelty of factory farming and slaughterhouses, and the fact that those practices are so totally at odds with how God tell us to live in the world, was and will continue to be the foundation of my veganism.

Vegan vs. Meat-Eater

Vegan vs. Meat-Eater infographic

Experiment in Being Human

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Trying this thing where I leave my phone at home when I leave the house. Hypothesis: Anticipate it will make me a better friend/spouse/mom. Results: TBD. Discussion: Not sure it does anyone any good for my face to be buried in an iPhone all damn day and night.