breast cancer Posts

A Driveway Moment for McCain

McCain

I pulled into the driveway, dropped my head to the steering wheel and wept a hurricane of tears.

I wept for Senator John McCain. I have stood in the room in Hanoi where he was imprisoned, saw the photos of the POWs of Vietnam. I’ve heard so many first-hand accounts from the men and women who served in Vietnam I could write one a day and never run out. There are terrible stories of young men crying out for their mothers as they drew their last breaths. Stories of civilians injured and dying. Collateral damage, they call it. It’s a term, instead of a story. A statistic of war, instead of someone’s daughter or son.

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About Hillbilly Elegy & Those Who Champion Us

 

Photo by Sue Counts

Photo by Sue Counts

I’ve been reading the book that everyone was talking about six months ago – Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance. It has been touted as an insightful book about Appalachia and more specifically about the people who voted Donald Trump into office.

It’s not really either of those things. When Vance says he’s from Appalachia what he means is that his people are from Kentucky, which is unquestionably Appalachia. But he grew up in Ohio, which to people who are Appalachian, not Appalachia.

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My Prayers for 2017

 

praying woman

I have this painting that a friend made me. It is a colorful painting with a big yellow sun in it and the phrase “FIND YOUR HAPPY” in big bold letters.

FIND YOUR HAPPY.

Many a theologian has warned us that if we go in search of happiness we will surely be disappointed. They often quote from the Scriptures: “Seek you first the kingdom of God and  his righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you.”

The Message version of this verse sums it up this way: “Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. Don’t worry about missing out. You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met.”

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Beneath a Rising Jesus

 

Weeping may last for the night, but a shout of joy comes in the morning.
(Psalm 30:5)

It was Saturday and we were in church. A big city church sat back on one of Portland’s wooded corners.

Imago Dei. Image of God.

Two years of Latin and I still had to look that up, just to be sure.

The woman with the sophisticated and expertly coiffed gray hair stopped me as I approached the Ladies Room. She called me by name. We met, she said. Remember? I’m the woman whose son died in war.

Yes, yes, I said, hugging her once again. We met at another church, on another day, that meeting time not nearly so emotional as this one.

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