When to Just Let it Go

Sometimes, I think I'm too much of a hard ass; I've had an ongoing issue with my daughter's teacher this year over the fact that she is very religious and very conservative, and I'm...well...NOT.  This teacher insists on injecting her political views into day to day classroom conversation; I suspect she has not been challenged on this for the simple fact that most parents in our extremely conservative area either agree with her, so see no reason to question this practice; or they simply are too wrapped up in their own lives to care.

However, I fit into neither category.

I have been letting a lot of what is said slide, because, for the most part, she is an excellent teacher, and my daughter has done quite well with her.  However, yesterday, my oldest decided to argue with me regarding a point made, and one that I knew was neither accurate nor remotely correct.  Normally, I would have just simply told her it wasn't right, and given her the reference; but she sat there and debated me on it...even bet me $10 on it...just because Mrs. So and So "said".  Well, Mrs. So and So was wrong, and my daughter quickly lost $10.

The argument was over the English translation of the Bible, and how it came to be.  I have told my oldest quite some time ago about King Henry VIII and his battle with the Roman Catholic Church, and how he had authorized and funded the first English translation of the Bible meant for public use (it was, however, far from the first English translation - that had been accomplished in the 1380's by John Wycliffe).  So now comes a chapter in her Social Studies book, which states that the King James Version was the first widely distributed English version of the Bible...which is not exactly true.  In fact, it isn't true at all.  Of course, this led my oldest to pop off with: "But my mom said..."  And it was all downhill from there.

So here comes the oldest last night, and she tells me, "I thought you said King Henry VIII had the first English translation, and I told Mrs. So and So that, and she said, 'I don't think so,' and then showed me in our Social Studies book..." and on and on and on.  When she was done, I told her that was not true, which brought on the above bet, which she promptly lost; not only did I prove her book wrong, but I wrote down the entire time line of how the English translation of the Bible we know as the King James Version came to be. 

While I was in the middle of my crusade, one of my friends sent me a text, and when I explained what I was doing and why, I promptly got a text back that was the equivalent of: "why do you let that stupid shit bother you?"  And that's a good question...why did it bother me?  Why did I let something in an outdated 6th grade text book get me to the point of spending an hour and a half writing a detailed accounting of how the Bible got translated into English for a child who would probably not remember half of it by the next day?  Is it because I knew the book, and the teacher, were wrong, or was it because I was pissed that my child chose to challenge me because Mrs. So and So said so?  Was I really doing this to educate my child, or was I doing it to satisfy my own ego?

Simple answer...both.

On the one hand, I want my daughters to know the truth about certain things so they are able to make educated decisions about important issues, including religion, as they gain age and knowledge.  On the other, I also am not about to have someone telling my kids I don't know what I'm talking about, especially when I most certainly do.  This isn't the first time this teacher and I have been at odds over our ideologies, and I'm not saying she is any more biased in her beliefs than I am; however, I have always been of the mind that my children need to see and understand different, and even opposing, viewpoints, because that is how we learn to be more well rounded, and respectful, individuals.

This time, though, was different; not because of the topic, but because of the direct affront to my knowledge, and how I chose to impart that knowledge to my child.  I fully understand that I was getting the almost 12 year old's version of the story, and that version may be quite different than what actually took place, but the underlying indication was most definitely there: a point was made, my daughter challenged it based on something I had told her, my daughter was told point blank that I was wrong, and that challenge was brought home to me, which I not only met, but trumped, in no time flat.

Yet by the time I finished putting this time line, and all the subsequent references, footnotes, and miscellaneous, and utterly useless, information down on paper, I had calmed down significantly.  I called my daughter into my office and handed her the paper, at which time I told her that this was the actual history, but I did not expect her to use it to prove her teacher wrong; this was for her, and nothing else.  I explained that just as I did not like having my authority and knowledge questioned, her teacher would not, and that out of respect for her as a teacher, I didn't think it would be a good idea.  I then said that if it continued to be an issue, I would deal with it as an adult; it was my place to do so...not hers.

So now that I have proven my point, I will once again let something slide; no reason to make life hard for my daughter because I don't agree with a teacher.  However, I have a sneaking suspicion that it won't be long before I once again hear: "But my mom said..."

Meet the Cats

Anyone who knows me knows I have a rather eclectic mix of animals; cows who love cookies, goats, chickens, a turkey, a duck and a donkey; and three very spoiled dogs.  Add to this mix four cats, each with a unique personality that only adds to the craziness.

The oldest of the cats is Callie, and she is by far the crankiest.  She kind of reminds me of the poor cat out of the old Pepe LePew cartoons right after she falls into the barrel - all mangy, drippy and wheezy.  She spends most of her days curled up in a ball sleeping, unless she wakes up long enough to eat or hiss at one of the others, all of whom have learned to steer clear of the old bitch.  If I had any sense, I'd do the humane thing and have her put down, but she came to me via an old friend who is no longer part of this world; so instead, I just leave her alone and let her sleep away whatever life she has left.

Tinker, on the other hand, is probably the most "normal" of the cats.  She was part of a pair given to me, but unfortunately, her sister didn't survive kittenhood.  She is the most loving of the kitties; always willing to cuddle and purr for anyone offering an ear-scratch, and she loves to perch on your lap, your belly, your chest, or your keyboard...especially when you are right in the middle of something.  She is often the first thing I see in the morning, because she likes to wake me up by sitting on my chest and putting her nose right on mine.  Tinker is also the girls' favorite go to kitty when they have had a bad day, or gotten in trouble, or had their little egos bruised; she is constantly packed around and hugged on...and she doesn't mind a bit.

Squeegee is, by far, the most neurotic of the cats, and after what she's been through, why shouldn't she be?  A couple summers ago, my irrigation pump decided to croak, which meant I had to hand irrigate my pasture while waiting for the replacement.  Since I hadn't had to do this for a while, it required cleaning the ditch between the pond and the pasture, and this was accomplished via a DR Trimmer.  We have a lot of feral cats at my other place, and feral cats always mean feral kittens; well, as my friend was running the trimmer while I dammed up the water to go down the ditch, I happened to look up and see some movement in the grass right where he was at.  Sure enough, it was one of these kittens.  I knew it was going to die, so I found a nice soft spot in some grass where it could go in peace and left it alone.

A few days later, I was up at the place with my girls.  I was out in the pasture changing my corrugates when I hear: "Mom!  Guess what we found!"  Now I'm thinking an egg, or a snake, or a really weird bug.  They come booking out to where I'm at holding something, and when they get to me, they proudly show me...a kitten.  The same kitten I thought was going to die.  Well, of course, I couldn't leave anything with that much spirit, so it came home.  I gave it a few drops of penicillin, nursed it with a syringe, and put it to bed in a shoebox.  I told the girls not to get too attached to it, because it had been hurt pretty bad...and I told them that every day for two weeks, while the kitten, in turn, did just fine.

Two years later, this bipolar cat is as much a part of the family as any, and has even been named a class mascot.  She is definitely in her own little world; one minute she wants you to love on her, and the next, she gone like a bat out of hell.  She never stays out very long, preferring instead to hide under my bed...and for some reason, she hates the sound of the lawnmower...

Now Tick...he's the shit, and the shithead.  Tick is another casualty of having a ranch.  Every year ditch banks have to be burned, and that's what we were doing.  I had seen the cat run, but didn't think anything of it, until I heard this sound, and I thought...Oh, shit.  I climbed up to the edge of the burn, and found this little singed ball of orange fur.  He looked horrible and smelled worse, and when I picked him up, I could see he was maybe two weeks old; his eyes were just barely opened and his ears were still closed.  The fire had toasted the tip of his tail (which eventually fell off), and the tips of his ears.  There was an offer to put the baby out of his misery, but Isella started bawling, and guess what...

We had tried several names for him - Fuego, Smoky, Singe - but none really fit.  While the name game was going on, this little baby still have to be fed...every two hours...and he was a little pig.  After I'd get done feeding him, I'd put him down on his stomach, and his little belly would be so full his feet would barely touch the ground; he looked like a little tick.

And the name just kind of stuck.

What was so funny about this baby, other than his penchant for climbing my pant leg when he was hungry, was his attachment to my weenie dog, Polly.  From the day we brought him home, she mothered the hell out of this kitten.  She bathed him, cuddled him and moved him around.  For weeks, if any of the other cats got near him, she'd get very protective, growling and biting at them; Tick was her baby.  Eventually, she even began to nurse him, which made quite an interesting sight, to say the least.  Even now, a year later, she is still his "Mommy"; at night when she's curled up by my feet, I will feel him sneaking down under the covers to cuddle up by her.  Unfortunately, he also still tries to nurse, and that is one sound I don't want to hear at 2 a.m., so with one swift motion of my foot, I kick them both out of the bed.  He will then sit there, one ear laid over, with this look of total indignation, before he goes thumping off to another part of the house, while Polly makes her way back down to her spot by my feet.

As I've said, he is not a quiet cat; in fact, it is a good thing I feed him, because there is no way in hell he could sneak up on anything not totally blind and/or deaf.  Because of the damage to his tail, he doesn't walk like a normal cat; instead he "thunks" everywhere...even on carpet.  You can hear him all over the house..."thunk thunk thunk"...and when he jumps up on anything, there is no sense of grace involved.  His tail is stuck in this permanently deformed question mark; no matter how hard he tries, he can't hold it up straight. 

Despite it all, though, he loves to go play outside (so does Tinker; Squeegee runs and hides the minute you open the door).  It is hilarious to watch him beg to go out; he stands up on his back legs as tall as he can pawing repeatedly at window, and it sounds like a little fan; bapbapbapbapbap; and he will not quit until you let him out.  Now when he wants back in, he does the same thing.  He will stand there, tail cocked off to one side, and just beat at the window until you let him in.  Then he thunks off, usually to go see if there's something in his food dish.  To say he is a character would be a gross understatement.

Each of my cats, just like every one of my animals, brings something special to my existence (and not just  fur).  Even on my worst days, I can count on one of my cats to do something to make things a little better, just as I can can always count on my cows to dig in my pocket for a cookie.  It is these little things done by my animals, and my kids, that make my life incredible.  So here's to my crazy cats and all they give me...even if I do have to clean up an occasional hairball.

The Younger Generation

I often tell some of my closest male friends how much I admire the fact that they work hard and sacrifice a lot of themselves to make sure their children learn the right lessons or that their kids have a good life.  More often than not when I share this sentiment, it is brushed off; they don't expect compliment or reinforcement simply because they are only doing what is rightly their responsibility.

However, part of the reason I do it is because of what I see on a day to day basis, and that is young men (and to a much lesser extent, young women) who feel no sense of obligation or responsibility to do anything, including support their children.  They have been raised with a sense of: "I breathe; therefore, I am entitled", and they exercise this sense of entitlement on a regular basis.  I have actually had some get nearly irate with me, because I will tell them they don't qualify for certain services or programs - they honestly believe it is my job to hand them whatever they want, that I (speaking for society in general) am somehow responsible for taking care of them, and they have no responsibility in taking care of themselves.  Of all the things I deal with, this one aspect is probably the most frustrating.

I have heard before how we have created this generation of: "Me, first!", and I believe it.  We have become so fearful of damaging a child's "delicate" self esteem that instead of building character in our children, we have turned them into, for lack of a better phrase, a bunch of spoiled brats.  I often use the example of the ribbons at the award ceremonies - when every child gets the same ribbon regardless of whether he (or she) showed up every day, practiced hard, and always played his (or her) best, or if he (or she) simply went at it half assed, knowing a reward was waiting, whether earn or not.  Not only does this diminish the achievement of the one who did everything right, teaching him that all his hard work was pointless, so why bother; but it is a disservice to the one who did nothing at all, because he learns that he doesn't have to work for what he wants, because it is going to be there anyway.  Not only that, but it doesn't force the latter to learn how to deal with disappointment, nor to explore whatever ability he might possess which will provide him with that sense of self satisfaction.  Face it...we cannot all be great athletes, scholars, musicians, or writers, be we all have something which sets us apart from everyone else.

A lot of these kids also have never been held accountable for their actions; many who are my age or older remember getting a swat on the ass when we misbehaved, and no one thought twice about it.  Now, a spanking is considered child abuse.   If we acted up at school, not only were we subject to the corrective actions of the administration, but also the corrective actions of our parents (or in my case, grandparents and uncle).  However, if a child acts up now, then the parents often lay the blame on everyone else; the school system, the teachers, the friends, or the phase of the moon, rather than look at their child as being the source of their child's problem.  (I have become rather notorious for telling misbehaving children to sit down and knock "it" off; more so than not, I get a look from an often very young parent saying, how...dare...I...chastise....her...kids!  Anyone who knows me also knows just how far this look goes with me.)

To a lesser extent, I blame our every burgeoning mental health industry; I cannot tell you how many times I have heard the phrase: "I can't work because I have (insert favorite three letters of the alphabet here)."  I hear about their OCD, ADHD, BP, PAD, ODD, and whatever other infirmity they can come up with (other than L-A-Z-Y).  I'm not saying these disorders aren't real, or that they don't have an immense effect on people's lives, because I know for a fact they do.  I have friends who fight depression on a daily basis, but the difference is that even though the depression is very real, they also know it has to be dealt with because their lives require it, and they do just that; whether through medication, yoga, herbs or simple determination (in fact, some I know will put off even getting help because they are ashamed of having anything wrong at all). Yet for these kids, this isn't the case.  For them, it is not just an excuse, but a badge of honor.  It is so easy for them to find a doctor who will tell them what they want to hear, throw some pills at them, and let them be on their way; again, this trivializes the disorders for those who truly have them and need help, and teaches others that if they don't want to do anything, just go get diagnosed with something and they are set.

I read somewhere that for the first time in our history, we are raising a generation less educated than the one before it, and I can believe that.  Every generation has had its share of those who do nothing with their lives but coast through, looking for the next handout (my own mother is case in point); but this generation is different, and it is a monster of our own creation.  In the effort of pop psychology to keep our kids from being "damaged" by failure or disappointment, or by "expecting too much" from them, the incentive to achieve and do well has disappeared.  In turn, not only do they have no respect for others, but in reality, none for themselves.  I, personally, would not want to live with the idea of someone else taking care of me (in fact, my ego has gotten me in trouble once or twice, like pulling out my sutures by loading hay on a trailer two days after surgery...oops).  I also have friends who, despite being sicker than hell, will ingest large amounts of cold medicine and force their way through the day, rather than burden someone else with their responsibilities.  But this generation has grown up thinking it is "special", and expecting to be taken care of.

I don't think the entire generation is that way, either; I see a lot of really, really good kids, raised by really good parents, including those I express admiration to (and who basically thing I am off my rocker for pointing it out).  I just hope there is enough of the good to balance out the not so good; for every one who comes in telling me how tough he (or she) has it, there is another who is working his (or her) ass off to make it through college or trade school so he (or she) can be self sufficient.  I am also not saying that we don't all need a little help from time to time, but that we show our children to seek this out only as a necessity, not as a way of life.  They are lessons I hope to impart on my own children; disappointment is part of life, but learning how deal with it is what makes us better people, and what you want in life means a whole lot more if you work for it and earn it, than if someone just hands it to you.  And when I tell them "no", it isn't because I don't love them, but because I do, and I have my reasons (which they don't always need to know), and that's the end of the conversation.  (From the reactions I often get when I tell these young adults "no", I seriously don't think they've heard it enough.)

So when I say to my friends, male and female alike, that I admire them for working hard and setting examples for their kids, I'm not just blowing smoke.  Again, I have my reasons, even if I don't always explain them.

Who Gave You the Right to Speak for God?

Not long after the earthquake in Japan, Glenn Beck, in his infinite wisdom, stated on his radio show that perhaps the earthquake was a result of people not following the 10 Commandments.  Aside from being a completely asinine assumption, it highlighted one of the biggest issues I have with fundamentalist religion, and that is every disaster, natural or otherwise, must somehow be a punishment from God.

Beck is far from the first to make a statement of this nature; last year, Pat Robertson pointed out that the people of Haiti had made a pact with the devil in 1796 (failing to mention that it was done to relieve them of the oppressive rule of the French, which was as close to living in Hell as one can get), so perhaps the earthquake was a result of that pact.  Rush "Maybe John Edwards wants a woman who does more with her mouth than talk" Limbaugh claimed the earthquake was punishment for Obamacare. When I hear someone make a comment along this line, whether it be Glenn Beck, or Pat Robertson or Rush Limbaugh (Rush?  Really?), I often wonder just how well they really know the Bible they so claim to follow, or if they really know it at all.  (Notice I'm not touching Fred Phelps - that asshole is in a league all his own.)

It is true that the Old Testament was full of punishment; you looked at someone wrong and you were liable to end up nothing more than ashes in a pile.  Cities were burned, first born died, civilizations were razed, and every living creature on earth, save those in a floating boat, drowned, so yes, punishment was a very real factor in the OT way of life.  But something happened around 2,000 years ago that was suppose to change all of that, and that was the coming of Jesus Christ.  He was suppose to have brought a new way, a new meaning to the world where this sort of atonement would no longer be required.  He was suppose to bring peace; his blood became the sacrifice and he was the way, the truth and the light.

So what am I missing?

I'm sure someone will look at this and tell me that as an atheist, I can't possibly understand, and that person would be right...I don't.  I cannot justify in my own mind how they can say "God is punishing", when Jesus supposedly bore the sins of the world on his own shoulders.  I mean, didn't he die, so we, in a spiritual sense, would not have to?  Or is this simply suppose to be of God's own picking and choosing, and people like Beck are the chosen?  I'm sorry, but that makes no sense.

And there is another problem with these assumptions; I have heard that the disasters in Japan and China are a result of their "godless" beliefs.  While it is true that the majority of Chinese and Japanese are not Christian, that isn't the case in Haiti, or Peru, or even Louisiana.  Haiti and Peru are predominately Catholic; in fact, over 90% of Haitians claim Catholicism...so does the argument then become that Catholics aren't true Christians?  Where do we draw the line with the: "God must be punishing them for something!" rhetoric?

What really angers me about people like Beck and Robertson (and Dobson and Osteen and so on and so forth) is that they diminish true Christianity; if I believed in false prophets, these people would strike me as such.  While I am not a believer, I know people who are (one of my best friends, as a matter of fact), and I have never once heard them pass this kind of judgment on another.  In fact, the ones I know have been the  first to offer whatever assistance they could to those who have been struck by a disaster of whatever sort, whether next door, or halfway around the world.

Yet this is not recognized; instead, people like the ones above become the faces of what the others see as Christianity, and instead of realizing the good, they resent the bad.  Honestly, if you had lost family in Japan, and you heard Beck say that maybe it happened because we weren't following the 10 Commandments, followed by the phrase: "I'm just saying", would you think, oh! He must be right!  Or would you be more likely to want to find him and tell him to go fuck himself?  I know what would happen if it were me, and I would not be nearly so nice about it.

And what saddens me is there are people who actually believe this; who follow him and Robertson (among others) blindly, without question.  They would rather be told what the Bible says, instead of picking it up, dusting it off, opening it up, and finding out for themselves.  I have always found it amusing that as an atheist, I know more about Christianity (and religion in general) than a lot who claim the faith, and I'm not alone;  a Pew Forum study found that those who identified as atheist or agnostic were often far more knowledgeable about what was in the Bible than those who identified as Christian.  When I took the test, and not just the little 10 question quiz, I nailed every question.  However, the average Christian scored somewhere between 50 and 60%...doesn't that strike you as odd?  (The fact that I am a Biblical scholar not withstanding, of course.)

At any rate...

Personally, one of the best things I think Christians can do is actually find out what the book they believe in says for themselves, instead of letting people like Beck tell them, and then talk for themselves, rather than let people like Robertson talk for them.

Perhaps then earthquakes wouldn't be punishment, and Christianity as a whole would be a lot better off.

Why sell yourself short?

It has been awhile since I have visited my blog, and I have been told from more than a few I should start it back up, although I have no idea why my random musings would be of any interest to anyone but me.  Yet here I am...

A friend (whom I consider to be a good one, and with whom I have had some incredible conversations, which I am missing greatly) sent me something that he had written to look over and offer an opinion on, and I did.  I also told this person that I thought he had a great deal of potential.  This, in turn, was met with quite a bit of resistance, as if it was unfathomable that there was indeed a talent there not yet recognized.  Our exchange ended when I asked this very question: "Why sell yourself short?"


It is the same conversation I have frequently with my oldest child; she has so much going for her, but she also has a hard time believing it.  For some reason I don't understand, since her talent is not the same as my talent, she figures she has no talent, no special ability, at all.

Everyone knows I write, and not only do I write, but I write everything imaginable.  I write humor, satire, political, business, religious, erotica, fiction...if I ever focused down, I could probably make a fortune (romance is out, though; it's stupid and not happening in this lifetime).  The fact of the matter is I have always been able to write, and I have always written - it is just what I do.  My mind formulates everything in words; the same way a photographer can capture an amazing scene in the every day mundane, or an artist can portray an entire emotion with a stroke of a brush, I can turn a blank piece of paper into whatever I want it to be simply with the words I choose to put on it, and make my audience see what I want them to see, and how I want them to see it. Furthermore, I can produce an entire piece of work in the same time it would take most, even accomplished writers, to produce one chapter.  Call it what you want; a talent or a God given gift, but whatever it is, it is something I possess.

So what does this little bit of ego blowing have to do with my daughter?  Simply put, she can't write like I do, and she cuts herself down for that one simple thing, without ever acknowledging everything else she can do.  For instance, my mother was an incredibly gifted artist who could have worked for Disney, had the drugs and alcohol and other torments not consumed her life.  I see this very gift blossoming in not just one, but both of my children; both are highly artistic and creative, and I've tried to nurture that potential.

But it isn't writing.

And, truth be known, my oldest daughter can write...when she takes the time and puts her mind to doing it well.  Of course she can't write like I do, but in her frustration at pointing out that I am a prodigy (every chance she gets), she forgets that while the above is true, and I have always just been able to do this, I also have 27 years on her, and I couldn't write at 11 the same way I do at 38.  Not only that, but some of the most accomplished authors are those who have had to work for that accomplishment - the words don't come as easily, but they do come eventually, and while it make take them longer to make the vision in the mind meet the words on the paper, it does happen.  As I tried to explain to my friend, who was lamenting the fact that it took a long time to put together what was meant to be said, it isn't the length of time it takes you to do it, but whether you are proud of it when it's done, and he very well should have been.


Besides, like I tell my daughter, a gift is only a gift if you use it, as is evidenced by my mother, and, to a lesser extent, me.  We were both born with these extraordinary abilities, but my mother died without ever letting hers take her where it could have.  As for me, I use mine, but not nearly to the extent I should; sometimes this becomes a burden, as I am often reminded by the well meaning that I "could be doing so much more with it"; to which I once retorted: "Spend a week in my mind, and let's see what you do with it."  (Needless to say, that exchange ended rather quickly, but it's true; my mind writes everything, and sometimes it is hard to sort it all out.)

I guess my point is that to cut yourself down simply because you don't have the same talent or ability as someone else, or if you do, possibly not to the same extent, is just not fair, because you are failing to recognize what you do have, even if it is nothing more than the ability to be a good person.  I try to explain to my daughter that she doesn't have to be like me to be special, and at some point, she will realize her own unique person; but no matter how hard I work to impart this particular bit of wisdom to her, I am also figuring out that she will have to discover this for herself...and I hope she does.

Of course, I have also told her she shouldn't want to be like me, because I can be extremely short tempered, cranky, moody, and sometimes downright miserable.  In fact, it has been scientifically proven that people who are highly intelligent and highly gifted are more prone to psychosocial problems, mental instability, manic and clinical depression; alcoholism amd drug addiction; and sometimes sociopathic behaviors, because our minds never shut down; even when we sleep, they are constantly going...it never stops.  While there are medications to curb this, it also dulls the very thing that makes us who we are, and I personally don't like that sensation of being "dulled down".  I guess with every blessing, a little curse must fall.


But, as often happens with a child her age, just about everything I say goes in one ear and out the other...or at least I think it does.  Then again, maybe it doesn't, and maybe somewhere in the rolled eyes and exasperated sighs, she is actually retaining a little of what I tell her, and maybe someday, it will all surface and she will become the very person I already know she is...an incredible young lady of whom I am very proud.


Until then, I guess I will just have to remind her it really is "i" before "e", except after "c".

Too many times it seems, as I have stated previously, we are suppose to take responsibility for the bad and give God the credit for the good; however, there is one time where this sense of twisted logic does not come into play, and that is when someone loses a baby.  I have heard it said more than once to parents who are in the midst of mind numbing grief because they have lost a child that these things happen for a reason, and God must have had a plan.

The sad thing is that I don't think the person who is offering this sentiment as a means of comfort realizes how this only makes the loss hurt even worse; no one wants to think that a good and loving God would willingly put anyone through this kind of torture.  While I have never had to endure this first hand, I cannot believe there is an equivalent to losing a child, especially when you have wanted and hoped for this little thing to come into your life, only to have it yanked from you, sometimes with no explanation.

Not only that, but the concept of a plan loses its cohesiveness when put into perspective; why is it that good people who want nothing more to be parents find themselves unable to conceive, or worse, end up losing a baby, while some argument for forced sterilization spawns another child he has no intention of supporting, or pops out her 8th drug addicted ward of the state?  Where is the reasoning behind this?  What, exactly, is the plan?

Perhaps the reason this is said is because the person standing by witnessing the grief doesn't know what else to say; death in any circumstance is hard to deal with, and people often look to whatever faith they have to help them endure.  But often when one is dealing with the death of someone else's child, then his own faith is questioned and challenged, and he seeks to reaffirm his beliefs by conveying that God wouldn't have done this without a reason...right??!!

Truth is, at least in my mind, that there really is no reason and there is no plan; it simply just happens.  It is an unfortunate fact that sometimes those who deserve the tragedies of life the least are the ones who get hit the hardest by them, and that includes babies and those who lose them.  Nobody ever wants to go through this kind of heartbreak, but, unfortunately, some will.  I guess the best we can do is to not offer thoughts of plans and reasons (or that at least you still have...; having one child never compensates for the loss of another.  The void is still there, and is still as painful), but to simply say, I'm sorry, and I'm here for you.

There is nothing on this earth that will ever take the place of just being a friend.

The Question of "Free Will"

One of the biggest issues I struggle with in terms of Christianity is the concept of "free will".  I know what it is, and I know how it plays a role in religion, but that doesn't mean I understand it fully, nor do I get why those who do not have it are still subjected to the consequences of the actions of those who do, and this is one of the things that really made me question faith and religion altogether.

We all know the theory behind "free will"; Adam and Eve exercised it when they chose to eat the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and in this exercise of free will, they were disobedient and subsequently expelled from the Garden of Eden.  Fair enough; to adults screw up and pay the price for their choice.  But my problem is this:  what about those who do not have conscious access to free will?  Where is their protection until they do?

I have had this conversation with members of my group mainly about how it pertains to children, and my question has always been if God is suppose to be benevolent and loving, then why do children get born into poverty, why do they get beaten, why do they get molested and why do they die, often at the hands of those who are suppose to protect them?  I have been told, in the greatest of faith, that it is because of our disobedience to God and because of our insistence on free will that the human race as a whole is subject to the punishment, and that includes the most defenseless among us.  As an adult, I am perfectly willing to make my own choices, for whatever they are worth, and accept the outcome of those choices; however, a child does not have that right to choice.

A child does not choose to be born to a drug addict, or to be born in Africa, or to be abandoned in a dumpster, or to get cancer.  A four year old will not opt to be molested by her mother's boyfriend; nor will a 9 year old say "yes" to becoming a toy for her stepfather, as well as becoming pregnant by him.  No two year old I know would choose to be murdered by her mother, and an 8 year old is not going to ask to be stuffed into a suitcase.  In short, these children do not have the free will so often touted as the cause for human misery.  So where is God for these kids?  Doesn't the Bible say, blessed are the children?  If children are a gift and a blessing, shouldn't there be something in the contract that states they will be free from disease and torment and death until they are old enough to exercise the free will the rest of us are held accountable for?

The other issue I have with "free will" is that it is perfectly acceptable to blame "free will" when we screw up, but when we do or receive something good, we are immediately suppose to give God the credit for it.  I have heard it more than once; someone gets in trouble or does something wrong, it is the fault of free will (and Satan), but if a person receives a gift or a promotion, then that's from God.

Really?  Why?  Why doesn't "free will" play a part in the good as well as the bad?  If we have the free will to fuck up our lives, don't we also have the free will to fix them?  Yes, we have the free will to snort that line, but we also have the free will to enter rehab (unless, of course, it is court ordered).  We may have the choice to bounce from job to job, but we also have the choice to stick it out, bust our ass and work our way up.  We can decide to have unprotected sex and breed senselessly, or we can decide to use condoms and birth control and not bring another unwanted baby into this world. 

The truth is we do have free will, but we also have the ability decide if we are going to use it in a positive or negative fashion, and as far as I'm concerned, God really has nothing to do with it.  In reality, free will is nothing more than our ethics, our conscience, and our knowledge of right and wrong, and if free will is going to be the reason for our punishment, then it should also be the factor behind our reward, and those who cannot exercise it should not be punished for it.