Katdish.net

image from nbcnews.com, photo by Charles Krupa, AP

While the investigation into the bombings at this year’s Boston Marathon is still in its early stages, one thing is clear: This was by definition, a terrorist attack. We just don’t know the who or the why yet.

What is also clear is that in the midst of violence and mayhem, compassion, heroism and love outshine hatred. The image of first responders running towards the explosions rather than away from them will always stay with me. Examples of kindness abound in reaction to the tragedy. From thousands of runners rushing to local hospitals to donate blood for the injured to people offering up beds and couches in their own homes, to local restaurants telling patrons they only need pay if they could. So many stories of ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

The iconic image of Carlos Arredondo depicts one example of many acts of heroism caught on film.

Carlos Arredondo is no stranger to tragedy. In 2004, Arredondo’s son, Marine Lance Cpl. Alexander S. Arredondo, died in battle in Najaf, Iraq. When Marines arrived on his 44th birthday to deliver the news, Arredondo climbed into the Marine van with a torch and a can of gasoline from his garage. He proceeded to douse the van and set it on fire, severely burning himself in the process.

In 2007, the New York Times wrote a story of a distraught man in a makeshift mobile memorial in the back of his pickup. There was a coffin containing his son’s favorite possessions and photos of his son ranging from those depicting a happy teenager to a fully outfitted battlefield warrior to a body in a coffin.

His grieving brought him national attention. In that same year, Arredondo was publicly beaten during an anti-war demonstration in Washington.

Just before Christmas, 2011, Carlos’ other son, Brian, 24, took his own life as U.S. troops were withdrawing from the war that left his brother dead.

“We are broken people”, Carlos Arredondo told the Boston Herald.

image from nbcnews.com via Getty Images

But broken, damaged people aren’t the same as broken, damaged things. Broken things are tossed aside, no longer useful or desirable. With broken people, their own pain often fuels their compassion for others who are broken. Even broken and bloodied.

“Do you think welfare is a Christian concept?”

This question comes from my 15-year old son, who often continues conversations with others that begin in his head, an idiosyncrasy he comes by honest. I do it all the time, just ask my husband, whose most common response to my insightful observational commentary is, “What are you talking about?, or more commonly, a look of total confusion. Oh wait, you can’t. He’s not on the interwebs.

But I digress…

Me: Welfare as in government subsidies to help the poor or as in general well being?

Son: Government welfare. I mean, as Christians, we’re supposed to give to the poor, right?

Me: Well, yes. The bible says we are to take care of widows and orphans; to help those in need. But that’s not the same thing. We should choose to do these things of our own free will. We’re not giving to the poor when we pay taxes. We’re giving to the government. We have no say in how much is then given to the poor. That’s the function of bureaucrats–to decide how our money is to be allocated. So I suppose the answer to your question is no. Welfare is not a Christian concept, but charity is.

Son: Do you believe in welfare?

Me: Yes. I believe there are people who are truly in need, but I also believe that giving people money often incentivizes them not to try and earn it for themselves or worse, creates a mindset that they are entitled it. For most, I think it should be a temporary remedy. Oftentimes it becomes a cycle of dependence.

Son: You mean like for lazy people?

Me: Lazy people, people who seek to beat the system. But honestly? I think there are just a whole lot of people who have given up hope of ever making it out of poverty. It’s easier just to allow someone else to take care of them. Which is sad because it robs them of their own power and limits their personal freedom.

Son: Huh?

Me: Do you remember last week when I did all of your laundry?

Son: Yeah. Thanks. That was great.

Me: What would have happened if I hadn’t done that? What would happen if I never did your laundry?

Son: I’d probably still have a big pile of dirty clothes. Well, no. That’s not true. I would have done my own laundry like I usually do.

Me: And is that such a bad thing?

Son: I’d prefer you do my laundry, but I can do it myself. Besides, when you do it, you wash my stuff with everyone else’s. Sometimes my favorite jeans don’t get washed because you don’t have a full load, and my Nike Combat workout stuff is the same way. You only wash my workout stuff when there’s a full load, so I end up wearing workout stuff I don’t really like because my Nike stuff is dirty.

Me: How is that any different than when you do it yourself?

Son: When I do my own laundry, I wash the stuff I want to wear first. That way, if I don’t finish it all, at least I have the stuff I need.

Me: But you’re supposed to wash jeans separately from your workout stuff, and the whites need to be bleached, so you can’t just throw those in with your other stuff.

Son: Mom, those are your rules, not mine. I’m a guy. I don’t really care if my socks are bleached or not. As long as I get the stink out, that’s clean enough for me.

Me: So, if you do your own laundry, you decide how and when to wash it, right? Your clothes are not subject to your mom’s laundry rules–rules that you care nothing about. Right?

Son: Yes. Besides, I don’t need you to do my laundry. I can do it myself. But I appreciate you doing it that last time. I had a whole lot of dirty clothes piled up after a week in Orlando, plus I had make-up work to do from school. I was pretty overwhelmed.

Me: You’re old enough to do most things for yourself and that’s a good thing. With responsibility comes freedom and vice versa. But sometimes life presents us with circumstances which prevent us from doing for ourselves. That’s why I did your laundry last week. I was your safety net when you needed some extra help. But don’t expect me to do your laundry all the time.

Son: Of course not!

Me: So, I’ll ask you the same question you asked me: Do you believe in welfare?

Son: Yes. But only if you truly need it. It should be the last resort, not the first.

Me: Well, there you go.

Before he succumbed to cancer, comedian and atheist Bill Hicks once observed:

Hey, doncha think the real reason Jesus Christ hasn’t returned is those crosses you wear? “They’re still wearing crosses: I’m not going, Dad. They totally missed the point. When they start wearing fishes, I might show up again.”

And while I understand his line of thinking, I actually think he’s the one who missed the larger point.

Granted, the cross has become a fashion statement in many ways. But to Christians, it represents much more. It’s a reminder of their Savior.

In biblical times, death on the cross was considered the worst possible death. Crucifixion is a method of deliberately slow and painful execution in which the condemned person is tied or nailed to a large wooden cross and left to hang until dead. While a crucifixion was an execution, it was also a humiliation, by making the condemned as vulnerable as possible. Although artists have depicted the figure on a cross with a loin cloth or a covering of the genitals, writings by Seneca the Younger suggest that victims were crucified completely naked. When the victim had to urinate or defecate, they had to do so in the open, in view of passers-by, resulting in discomfort and the attraction of insects. (Source: Wikipedia)

Wearing a cross as an adornment back then would be the equivalent of wearing an electric chair necklace or hangman’s noose earrings. It’s pretty appalling when you think about it.

So why the cross? Why use the very symbol of Jesus’s agonizing, humiliating and painful death to signify that you’re a follower of Him?

Because on that horrible, dark Friday so long ago, Jesus gave up his Spirit, the temple curtain was torn away and the world was changed forever.

The beauty of the cross is that God turned a symbol of horror and disgrace into one of hope and beauty in one act of love and ultimate sacrifice.

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
because the Lord has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the Lord
for the display of his splendor.

–Isaiah 61:1-3

He makes beauty from ashes.

And over 2,000 years later, the cross and the tomb are still empty.

He is risen.

Editor’s Note: This post is loosely based on a sermon taught by Jeff Hogan. It is used without his permission, and I’m really sorry if I messed it up, Jeff!

image courtesy of photobucket.com

In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve not been writing or reading any blog posts lately. There was a time I felt compelled to write and publish something at least twice a week. I still enjoy writing and reading blog posts and the blogging community that goes with it. I’ve just been preoccupied with a few projects which keep me from my own writing–which is completely okay with me. I’m probably one of the few bloggers who have no immediate aspirations of being published in book form. It’s not that I couldn’t write a book, but I know myself well enough to know that I’m too busy (Read: lazy) to write a good one–at least right now.

Even though I haven’t been reading blogs, I have been reading: books and books-to-be mostly. However, I do have a great app called Zite. It searches the interwebs for stories you might be interested in based upon your pre-selected topics of interest. I was skimming through the Writing section when I came across an article written by a blogger/writer who I’m already familiar with. I typically don’t read his stuff because it’s a blog by a writer writing about being a writer written for writers, and as I said in my last Why I hate writing post: katdish, dream crusher, that’s just a little too much navel gazing for me. But the subject matter caught my attention.

This writer is just sick to death of self-promotion.

He’s sick of his own self-promotion and if you’re sick of his self-promotion, well, he’s really sorry about that. He’s ready to turn over a new leaf. He’s going to generously help promote others, not himself.

Oh, and by the way. You should, too.

Because the sub-text of this article (in my sometimes jaded and cynical perspective) is not so much that he’s tired of his own self-promotion.

He’s mostly just tired of yours.

There are so many people shouting about themselves that all that noise drowns out the voices that deserve to be heard and heeded.

You know…like his.

You, wanna-be-desperate-to-catch-a-break-diaper-changing-working-two-jobs-struggling-writer? Stop with all this disdainful self-promotion. It’s annoying. Yes, his blog has over 100,000 readers and yours has 10 (including your immediately family), but really–enough already. Put aside your dream and help someone else achieve theirs. You’ll feel much better about yourself.

Okay, maybe not. You are a writer, after all.

Self-loathing sort of goes with the territory, am I right?

Never mind his advice.

Either he’s never really known the sting of countless rejection letters from agents and publishers because you don’t have a “sufficient platform” or…

in the words of Roland Deschain,

“He’s forgotten the face of his father.”

In a perfect world, writers could spend their time writing and leave the promotion to those who believe in their work and are happy to share it with as many people as possible.

Clearly this is not a perfect world.

So, as I said before, never mind his advice.

Cling to your dreams and do what you feel is necessary to share your work.

He’s not the boss of you.

images courtesy of bing images

When I was kid, I only wore shoes when I was forced to do so. Even after suffering countless stubbed toes from attempting to stop my bicycle with my bare feet and stepping on frogs and toads hidden in the grass (the latter explaining my intense disdain for the slimy beasts to this day), going barefoot was always preferable to the confinement of shoes. And while my child-mind would most likely not be able to express or even comprehend my reasoning, I think it had much to do with feeling directly connected to earth I trod upon. Shoes were a barrier to that connection.

Fast forward to today.

I rarely go without shoes on my feet. Granted, unless inclement weather forces me to do otherwise, my shoes are almost always sandals or flip flops, but I still feel the need to protect my feet against the many hazards which await the naked foot. I even wear flops in the relative safety of my home, and when my feet are bare, a pair of flops are almost always close by for those times when Buddy Love the daschund needs to make a trip outside.

Except for yesterday.

Yesterday when Buddy starting whining, I realized that I had left my flops in the bedroom. Normally I would have simply gone in there a put them on, but on this day my husband was napping in there after a long flight and I didn’t want to disturb him. Yesterday I braved the back acre of the property with no barrier between my feet and the dangers of a south Texas lawn. Of which there are many:

There are prickly weeds and stickers hiding in the grass.

Angry fire ants waiting to attack should you disturb their mounds.

Large piles of fallen acorns which can be surprisingly painful to the arches of your feet.

Along with the obvious hazards of walking barefoot in the yard of a dog owner.

Yes, I went there. Sorry/you’re welcome.

In the five minutes or so it took to walk Buddy Love through the back yard to take care of his business, I could think of little else other than these dangers which might potentially befall my naked feet. Gone was the little girl who thought nothing of stubbed toes and the squishy deaths of amphibians and only of the freedom of running unencumbered through the grass. She had been replaced by a middle-aged woman concerned more about discomfort which might befall her than the simple pleasure of feeling the cool grass beneath her feet.

Some say dogs are acutely sensitive to their human’s state of mind. If that’s true, maybe Buddy took an opportunity to reach out to that little girl long forgotten and simply say,

Stop worrying about what might happen…

And just enjoy the moment we’re in right now.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off the walk barefoot in the grass.

This time not by necessity…

but by choice.

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”

~Helen Keller

The salesperson put this little sample bottle in my bag at Sephora last week.

It cost me nothing more than a trip to the store.

It was unexpected.

It was undeserved.

Such is grace.

A larger version of the bottled grace is available for sale.

Ironic…

Real grace cannot be bought or earned,

Only freely given.

Undeserved favor.

From my sermon notes on Sunday:

There are only two choices. Either:

The sacrifice of Jesus accomplishes everything.

The sacrifice of Jesus means nothing.

As some of you may already know, I’m not a big fan of Valentine’s Day. If you think that makes me unromantic, well…I don’t really care. I won’t give you my arguments against the holiday, as I think I’ve made my case against it here and here.

But I will reiterate my contention that Valentine’s Day is not so much about love, but about expressing love. Not a bad thing, of course. We all need to be loved. My problem with the holiday is with all those who feel so completely unloved by their exclusion in the festivities. I’m not suggesting a boycott of the holiday, I just don’t personally celebrate it.

For all of you who face this week with trepidation–worried that you won’t give or receive enough to feel loved, I’m going to break my self-imposed ban of Valentine’s Day to send out a very special message of love. It’s one I’ve posted here before, but one I need to be reminded of often.

Maybe you do, too.

Brennan Manning said:

The Lord Jesus is going to ask each of us one question and only one question:

Do you believe that I loved you? That I desired you? That I waited for you day after day? That I longed to hear the sound of your voice?

The real believers there will answer, “Yes, Jesus. I believed in your love and I tried to shape my life as a response to it. But many of us who are so faithful in our ministry, in our practice, in our church going are going to have to reply, “Well frankly, no sir. I mean, I never really believed it. I mean, I heard alot of wonderful sermons and teachings about it. In fact I gave quite a few myself. But I always knew that that was just a way of speaking; a kindly lie, some Christian’s pious pat on the back to cheer me on. And there’s the difference between the real believers and the nominal Christians that are found in our churches across the land. No one can measure like a believer the depth and the intensity of God’s love. But at the same time, no one can measure like a believer the effectiveness of our gloom, pessimism, low self-esteem, self-hatred and despair that block God’s way to us. Do you see why it is so important to lay hold of this basic truth of our faith? Because you’re only going to be as big as your own concept of God.

Do you remember the famous line of the French philosopher, Blaise Pascal? “God made man in his own image, and man returned the compliment”? We often make God in our own image, and He winds up to be as fussy, rude, narrow minded, legalistic, judgemental, unforgiving, unloving as we are.

In the past couple of three years I have preached the gospel to the financial community in Wallstreet, New York City, the airmen and women of the air force academy in Colorado Springs, a thousand positions in Nairobi. I’ve been in churches in Bangor, Maine, Miami, Chicago, St. Louis, Seattle, San Diego. And honest, the god of so many Christians I meet is a god who is too small for me. Because he is not the God of the Word, he is not the God revealed by it in Jesus Christ who this moment comes right to your seat and says,

“I have a word for you. I know your whole life story. I know every skeleton in your closet. I know every moment of sin, shame, dishonesty and degraded love that has darkened your past. Right now I know your shallow faith, your feeble prayer life, your inconsistent discipleship. And my word is this: I dare you to trust that I love you just as you are, and not as you should be. Because you’re never going to be as you should be.”

Do you believe that He loves you?

Last week, I watched new coverage of the ongoing hostage situation unfolding in Midland City, Alabama. Sixty-five year old Jimmy Lee Dykes had taken a 5 year old child off a school bus after fatally shooting the driver. Dykes held the boy hostage in an underground bunker for a week until negotiations broke down and authorities stormed the bunker, rescued the boy and killed his kidnapper. Much has been said of bus driver Charles Poland, and rightly so. Poland stood between Dykes and the children on the bus to protect them. He made the ultimate sacrifice. He died a hero.

That’s a word that’s bandied about a lot, isn’t it?

Hero.

I’ve heard single parents called heroes because they must be both mother and father to their kids while working full time. I’ve heard teachers referred to as heroes because they’re required to be babysitters and counselors and well as educators. And while I don’t diminish the hard work and dedication it takes to be a single parent or a teacher, I suspect if you were to ask why they do what they do, most answers would be along the lines of, “What choice do I have? It’s what needs to be done. It’s what is expected.”

For me, being a hero involves going beyond what is expected; displaying courage and nobility when others do not. It’s about doing the right thing even if it puts your life in danger. Soldiers are heroes. First responders are heroes. Likely heroes.

And then there’s Kai, the homeless, hitchhiking, surfer, hippie. An unlikely hero, but a hero just the same:

In the unedited version of this news report, you learn a little more about Kai. At the very end of the tape, the reporter tells Kai that it seems he doesn’t seem to have any concern for himself, that he seems to be all about doing the right thing and not even worrying about “Kai first”. Kai’s short response really struck me:

“I don’t have any family. I mean, as far as anyone I grew up with is concerned I’m already dead. So…whatever.”

He probably doesn’t live a lifestyle most would condone or want for their own children. Fresno, California is a long way from where he said he grew up in West Virginia. If I had to guess I’d say he had a less than stellar childhood, has done many things he regrets and has relationships in his life he thinks are irreparably broken. But despite all the emotional baggage and regret he’s probably carried around much like that backpack, on this day, he did not let any of it weigh him down. He saw the opportunity to do what was right, what was heroic, and he took it.

May we all be so brave.

“No matter what you’ve done you deserve respect. Even if you’ve made mistakes you’re lovable, and it doesn’t matter your looks, skills, or age, or size, or anything, you’re worthwhile. No one can ever take that away from you.” — Kai

Both of my kids are involved in extra-cirrular activities at school. My sixth grader plays percussion for the band and is involved in something called Science Olympiad–or as I jokingly refer to it, The Nerd Olympics.

My 9th grader is in band and football. Between private lessons, practice and school work, his schedule was already full. Which is why when he insisted on being involved in Debate, the Debate teacher was understandably concerned about whether he would be fully committed to the research and preparation required to compete in tournaments. She need not have been. After a phone conversation with her about my son’s interest in politics–he was voted “Most Likely to become a Politician” by his 8th grade class–her concerns were abated and she was excited about having him join the team. That he enjoys being on the debate team doesn’t surprise me. What has surprised me is that he is the only kid on that team who considers himself a conservative. There are two who claim the moniker of libertarian. The rest consider themselves liberal. We live in Texas, y’all. States don’t get much redder than this one.

When the school year began, he would tell me stories of spirited discussions he engaged in with his liberal classmates. As the school year has progressed however, he has begun to take liberal stances on political issues. Not, he assures me, because he actually buys into them, but because part of being a successful debater is being able to argue both sides of an issue. But still–This is a kid who often proudly wears a tee shirt emblazoned with the face of Ronald Reagan and the words “Do you miss me now?” on it. Then there’s comments like, “Do you really think Fox News is fair and balanced?” I shared with him my belief that there’s really no such thing as fair and balanced news coverage anymore. Everyone filters information through what they want to believe is the truth.

The world is much more polarized these days, but I think us humans have always had a knack for creating our own soundtracks in life.

Upon hearing the phrase “sensible gun laws”, depending upon your political leanings you might hear “the government is going to make the streets safer for everyone” or “the government is trying to take guns away from everyone but the criminals”.

Even in personal relationships, a person might say “It’s not you, it’s me”. Nine times out of ten, what the other person hears is “It’s totally you.” (And nine times out of ten, they’re correct.)

We choose to believe versions of truth based upon our life experiences and the deep-seated desires of our heart. One only has to look as far as the Manti Te’o story for proof of that. That’s obviously an extreme case, but let’s be honest. If we could create our own soundtrack as our lives played out before us, who wouldn’t edit out “The spot we found is cancerous” and replace it with “It must have been a smudge on the x-ray because you’re perfectly healthy”, or edit out “We need to talk” and replace it with “You’re all I’ve ever wanted”?

Face it. If you could mute the sound and put in your own words, you’d most likely do it.

You might even do something like this:

Did she just write a 500+ word post just to share a YouTube video?!?

Yesh.

Yesh she did. Snort!

Happy Superbowl Sunday, y’all!

I spent a lot less time on social media than I used to. I check my Twitter and Facebook feeds every day, but I don’t spend more than a few minutes on either. More times than not, I get in on the tail end of some controversy which has erupted on Twitter. Such was the case when I began seeing tweets in my timeline from folks coming absolutely UNGLUED in the aftermath of this tweet sent out by Mark Driscoll on Inauguration Day:

You know…

It’s not like Driscoll is known for his tact. This is hardly the first time he’s offended thousands of people. I have to believe he fully expected a huge backlash because of this tweet, and that’s exactly what he got.

There’s more. Much more. If you’re interested, you can read his entire timeline. Shaun King (who has over 31,500 followers and lists “Jesus Follower” on his timeline) later apologized for his language, but stood by his outrage as a result of Driscoll’s tweet. I don’t question for a moment that Mr. King’s outrage was genuine, and I’m sure many others, regardless of their political affiliations, were offended by Mark Driscoll’s tweet.

But seriously, people…

When you go off on someone on such a public forum, you end up looking like a self-righteous attention whore. I’m not trying to single out Shaun King. I’m sure there were plenty of others going off on Driscoll. I just happened to see his tirade because @Learell is in my “Friends” column on Tweetdeck, and when I saw this exchange, it made me curious about what I had missed:

Shaun King doesn’t know Learell from Adam. As far as I know, this is the first interaction either has had with one another. Yet King assumes Learell agreed with what Driscoll said.

Twitter is not the platform for meaningful dialogue about complex issues or passionate debates about politics, religion, or…well…anything.

It’s Twitter, people!

It’s pithy comments of 140 characters or less. The odds of your words being misunderstood and/or taken out of context are pretty high. Those odds go up exponentially when you’re pissed off.

If you’re outraged about something, rather than express your anger in 140 character spurts, get a pen and a notepad, or talk to a real, non-virtual human being about it. Maybe even go so far as to send a private email to the offending party.

If none of this advice sounds reasonable; if you still think your best bet is expressing your righteous anger on social media, might I suggest you examine why that is? Why you feel it so important to share your worst moments intimately with what amounts to a bunch of complete and total strangers who have no right to judge you, but most certainly will?

And while we’re on the subject of social media, can someone please explain to me why you would follow someone you don’t like? Doesn’t living in a fallen world give us plenty to be upset about without going out and looking for reasons to be pissed off?

In the memorable words of Sergeant Hulka…

Lighten up, Francis.