Boston, you're my home

I love Boston.

No matter where I live, Boston will always be my "home".

"I'm from Boston." That's usually how I introduce myself to strangers, even though I was born in Fall River, MA.  Who knows about Fall River, except the association with Lizzie Borden "who had an axe and gave her mother 40 whacks. When she saw what she she had done, she gave her father 41"?

Besides, I spent most of my young adult life somewhere in the City of Boston - well, when I wasn't somewhere on one of the beaches and towns of Cape Cod.

When I was in nursing school, I did most of my specialty rotations at one of the many fine hospitals in Boston - Pediatrics at Boston Children's. OB-GYN at Boston Floating. Oncology at Dana Farber. Neuro at Mass General.

My senior paper was titled "Mass General Hospital Neuro-Surgical Unit: 101 Reasons Why It Should Be Shut Down." Long story short: I got an A+.

My undergraduate and graduate studies were in Cambridge, MA, a 20 minute ride on The "T" into Boston. I was a seminarian for two years and a deacon for 6 months at St. John's, Bowdon St., near Government Center and down from Beacon Hill in Boston.

The first time I went to a gay bar - no, not a lesbian bar; back in the day gay men and lesbians didn't 'mingle' much - was in Boston. I went with a group of fellow nursing students because we knew we could just have a drink after our shift and wouldn't be 'hit on' by the gay men there.

Later - much, much later - I would go to my first lesbian bar. In Boston. South End. Of course.

As a child, I loved going to the Fenway with my father and uncles and cousins to watch the Boston Red Sox play. We sat in the "cheap seats". $2.50 for kids. $5 for adults. Out in the open sun. Not far from the "Green Monster".

And, when you ordered a hot dog, you had your choice of ketchup, mustard, relish, mayo AND fresh, chopped onions.  Forget the "Curse of the Bambino". I swear, since they stopped serving fresh, chopped onions on dogs, the BoSox have been cursed.

Back in the late 60s and early 70s we sang "Dirty Water" during the 7th inning stretch - a a mock paean to the city of Boston and its then-famously polluted Boston Harbor and Charles River.  Many a time, I came home from a game and didn't have a voice for the next three days from singing (and, bumping and grinding in the stands) to that song.

"Frustrated women, have to be in my 12 o'clock (Women - but not men - in certain colleges and universities like ours had a midnight curfew)....... Oh, oh, Boston you're my home."

Now that the Harbor and the River Charles have been cleaned up, folks at the Fenway sing "Sweet Caroline" at the bottom of the 8th Inning. That's an ode to the Kennedy's of Boston - especially Caroline Kennedy, who threw out the first pitch at the 100^th anniversary game at Fenway Park – the oldest ballpark in major league baseball – on April 20, 2012, a hundred years after her great-grandfather, Boston mayor "Honey Fitz," threw out the ceremonial pitch of the first-ever baseball game at Fenway.

I thought it was pretty classy when the NY Yankees joined every other member of Major League Baseball parks coast to coast and sang "Sweet Caroline" during their game, Tuesday night, as an act of solidarity with their rivals, the Boston Red Sox. 

I do believe that's the nicest thing I've ever said about the NY Yankees. That's because that's the nicest thing I think the Yankees have ever said or done for my BoSox.

It may not ever happen again, but that's the thing about tragedies, isn't it? The worst in others often brings out the best in us.

Here's the thing about Boston: Take away all the students - who study everything from medicine to business to science to politics to engineering to music to theology - and all the tourists, and what you've got left is just a sleepy backwater town.

There are still neighborhoods with strong identities - The Italian North End. Chinatown. The Irish in Southie. The African Americans in Roxbury. The Afro-Caribbeans and newly upwardly mobile in Dorchester. The three-piece-pin-stripped-suit-Lacoste-shirted-Lily-Pulitzer-dressed-WASPS and Yuppies and Buppies Guppies on Beacon Hill. The melting pot of ethnicity and culture in Jamaica Plains. The LGBT people and passionately liberal in the South End.

Yes, you can still go to an Irish neighborhood bar in Southie and parts of Dorchester and watch the hat passed to collect money to support the IRA "back home". And, yes, you can still hear racist language and see evidence of institutionalized racism in the transportation structures of the "T".

Like I said, underneath the sophisticated sheen of prestigious medical schools and universities and the polish of the high-end shops on Newbury St., Boston is really just a sleepy backwater town.

But, when it comes to what happened at the Boston Marathon on Monday - Patriot's Day. Tax Day - well, I think this particular terrorist picked on the wrong town.

We're scrappy. We're tough. Solid blue collar at the core, with all the attendant values of hard work and fair play and an appreciation for differences - just in their own place.

Yes, yes. When this terrorist is caught - and, make no mistake: he/they WILL be caught (but not quickly enough for anyone's liking) - and he/they'll spout off the usual political-religious insanity in "defense" of this heinous act of cowardice, we'll all roll our eyes and then roll up our sleeves and continue planning for next year's marathon.

And, don't expect anybody from Boston to be giving up any of his or her civil liberties in the name of "protection" of its citizenry any time too soon.  We got "cops". We expect them to do their job without taking away our liberties.

Yeah, this "nut job" may have gotten away with this atrocity. This time.  We may be a sleepy backwater town, but we also have a long history of dealing with treason and terror.

We're the people who threw all the tea in the Boston Harbor, remember? We were some of the original readers to be inspired by  Thomas Paine's "The American Crisis" pamphlet series (AKA "Common Sense"), which, when I was a kid, was required reading by every 6th Grader in the MA public school system. It begins with these words:

These are the times that try men's souls: The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like Hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.

Yup, we got that.  It's in our DNA.

So, please join me in prayer for my home town. In a way, Boston is every American's "home town". The sparks of the freedom and independence we enjoy today and protect so fervently were ignited there. The American Revolution began there. The spirit of "liberty and justice for all" still lives there.

In the fabric of the soul of this country, we're all Bostonians.

It's not going to be easy to recover from this assault and insult to our identity, but we will.

With everyone's help and prayers, we will.

Boston, you're our home.

Hank and Rhoda

One of the really amazing parts of Hospice work is being invited into the stories of people's lives.

Like, Hank and Rhoda.

Well, that's not their real names, and I've concealed their real identities to protect them, but they could be one of many couples in the western part of Sussex County.

Or, any part of rural America, really.

In fact, I had never met either one of them before Hank died, but I was called in to officiate at Hank's funeral.  That happens sometimes in Hospice chaplaincy. People suffer with chronic illness, take a sudden turn for the worse and then, two, three days later, they're gone.

The family is stunned by the loss - and, stunned because they are stunned by the loss. And then, just as suddenly, there's a funeral to plan and nobody knows what to do.  Somebody asks, "Can the Hospice Chaplain help us?" and the next thing I know, I'm having phone conversations with relatives that begin with a sincere expression of condolence at the loss of this wonderful person and become filled with laughter and tears as amazing stories spill out about the deceased and their family.

The first thing one of his relatives told me was that Hank had worked for the same company for 36 years. Can you imagine that, he asked? Thirty-six years with the same company? It does seem pretty remarkable, especially these days, but I think that says something about Hank as well as that company, don't you? 

The second thing I was told was that Hank and Rhoda had been married for 57 years. Imagine that? Fifty-seven years with the same person. The person who told me this said it with a mixture of astonishment and yet like this was exactly how things were supposed to work but didn't so much anymore and he was a sad that it had all come to an end.

I was also told Hank enjoyed fishing, crabbing, riding motor cycles, shooting sporting clays and traps and had won many turkeys and hams for the freezer in trap shooting contests.

He had also worked as an assistant scout master, raising two of his sons to eagle scout. He loved tinkering in the garage with small scale airplanes and other craft projects - some, his niece explained with a laugh, he would finish and some are still in the garage. 

Sounded like your average, everyday remarkable human life to me.

Of all the stories I heard about Hank - this man I never met - these two about Hank and Rhoda became the bookends of all the stories of their 57 years of married life together.

Hank met Rhoda when he was 19 and she was 12. Rhoda was on vacation with her family in DE and when she and her two sisters walked to the dance hall they went by Hank's house where he was outside washing his car.

At the end of her vacation, Rhoda went back home to PA and Hank went into the Navy. At the end of his Navy career, he was stationed in Philadelphia and decided, just on a whim, to look up Rhoda.

He went to the addresses he had for her only to find that her family had moved. Hank started calling everyone with her last name that was listed in the phone book (remember those?), asking them if they had a daughter Rhoda. He called and called and called all day and into the evening until he found her.

He surprised her one night when she was leaving her job at the A&P store and showed up in his Navy uniform and won Rhoda's heart. At the time Rhoda was "engaged" but once she saw Hank in his Navy uniform, she broke off her engagement with the other guy and "Hank and Rhoda have been together ever since".

The second story is one that is more recent. A few years ago, Rhoda need to be admitted to a local skilled nursing facility for a few weeks of IV antibiotics. Once she had the does of medicine, she was allowed to come home for a few hours and had to be back to the facility by bedtime.

Hank was always used to Rhoda taking care of him, so when she came home he still expected her to clean the house, do the laundry and cook his meals. One day, while she was home, they had a disagreement and he was fussing and she decided that she was not coming home for the day anymore until she was discharged because she was just not able to do the regular houseowrk and he just did not understand.

That night, he called his daughter and daughter in law and wanted a family meeting. He wanted an explanation of what exactly was wrong with Rhoda and why she was mad with him and then, his family told me, he cried. His "girls" told him that maybe he needed to do something special for Rhoda to show her he loved her and they suggested flowers.

Hank became very upset. "She knows I love her and I have never bought flowers in fifty some years and I am not going to start now," he thundered.

Well, Rhoda wasn't going to give in either. She wasn't going to come home until Hank apologized.

The next morning, Hank called the florist and ordered "a dozen of their prettiest roses and he said he didn't care what the cost was". Then, he took the roses and his cane and went unsteady to the second floor of the Skilled Nursing Facility where Rhoda was staying.

The story was that no one was certain who cried more - Hank or Rhoda - but Rhoda called the girls that evening, crying happy tears and saying "in 50 plus years he's never given me flowers, much less roses."

The girls said, "This story just goes to prove that it's never too late to give flowers and tell someone that you love them."

Well, yes. That is one thing that story just goes to prove.

I think it also goes to prove that love comes in all different kinds to many different kinds of people, but the kind that holds a marriage together for 50 plus years is not necessarily the romantic love that first brought them together.

That's a much more complicated and complex mixture that grows stronger over time and having three kids together and doing projects in the garage and riding your motorcycle and cooking meals and doing laundry and going to trap shoots and winning hams and turkeys for your family freezer.

Even so, I've learned that the only three words stronger than "I love you" are the words, "I am sorry".

Add a dozen roses to the mix and you get a love story that is as timeless and eternal and extraordinary as it is everyday and commonplace.

The story of Hank and Rhoda is just one of those love stories. 

And I - lucky me - get the chance to tell a piece of it. 

Annette

It's been said that she was a "Mouseketeer's Mouseketeer." She was America's quintessential "girl next door." She described herself as "the queen of teen".

Yes, Annette Funicello was all that.

Then again, it was a different time in America, when you could, in fact, be all that. 

Her sweet, innocent face, deep-brown doe-eyes and soft voice captured something about pre-adolescence in the 50s and adolescence in the 60s that spoke to a generation of young people who watched her grow up as one of Walt Disney's Mouseketeers.

Actually, she was the last of the 24 original Mouseketeers chosen for “The Mickey Mouse Club,” the immensely popular children’s television show that began in 1955, when fewer than two-thirds of households had television sets.

Before long, she was getting more than 6,000 fan letters a week, and was known by just her first name in a manner that later defined celebrities like Cher, Madonna and Prince.

She is also known for the "Beach Blanket Bingo" movie series with Frankie Avalon. 

It was "good clean fun," said producer Walt Disney - who begged Annette to call him "Uncle Walt" but she insisted on "Mr. Disney" - with a little dash of spice. 

Bikinis were worn - well, okay, a two piece bathing suit - but no exposed navels. And, certainly no 'thigh high' cuts to the leg. Not even any real cleavage - except around the toes.

It was a different time.

It was a time when "fairness" was still something that was a goal in life - from relationships to negotiation.

We had no idea that "fairness" was also part of the Disney fantasy.  That, in fact, life wasn't fair.

I sent her a letter once. Really. She had that kind of personality with whom a young girl like me felt an easy rapport.  As I recall, I asked her advice concerning one of my younger sisters who, quite simply, hated me.

No, really. Far as I know, she still does. 

She stole my clothing and jewelry - not to wear for herself but to destroy it just so I wouldn't have it. She would order things in my name out of catalogs - like books or purses or trinkets - and giggled wickedly as I argued with my mother that I didn't - honest to God! - order that item and pleaded with her to help me to return it.

Finally, my mother caught on but for a couple of months, it was pretty awful. I was the oldest and had no one to whom to turn for advice. Annette was as close to an older sister as I was going to get.

So, I wrote to her and asked her advice.

I wish I had kept my letter to her and hers to me. I don't remember the exact content of either letter. What I do remember is my letter being distraught and desperate and, no doubt, dramatic. I remember her letter being kind and gentle and filled with practical advice and encouragement.

And, I remember it was hand-written. Honest!

What I remember most is that Annette advised that I not be "mean back" to my sister.  She said something like, "You are older than her and it wouldn't be fair. She'll eventually grow up and be as mature as you. You just keep your head high and set a good example for her."

Well, she was wrong, but it was absolutely what I needed her to say.

Well, at the time. She called me to all the ideals embodied in being a Mouseketeer: Fair. Mature. Holding your head high. Setting a good example for others.

Annette has suffered for the past 25 years with multiple sclerosis, a cruel, debilitating disease that robbed her of simple dignities like the ability to feed or dress herself, or talk.

All that sweetness and innocence and talent.

It just wasn't fair.

Then again, as we later learned, life isn't fair.

"Fair" was only life on television for 30 or 60 minutes at a time on programs like "The Mickey Mouse Club" - or for a little more time in movies like "Beach Blanket Bingo". 

Where fairness was part of the fantasy. 

And, it was a different time in America. 

I sure do miss Annette and all she represented.

I think I have - and will - for a very long time.

Plan A: Pay Attention

Headlines of news on the Reproductive Justice front screamed across two continents yesterday, which was enough to rouse my brain to full attention, foggy as it was with medications helping me recover from this bout of bronchial pneumonia.

There are actually three bits of news I've been considering.

The first news item is that the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation is putting up $100,000 to the best proposal for a more fun and pleasurable condom. The competition is part of its Grand Exploration Challenges, which has already doled out nearly $50 million for quirky but effective solutions to global health problems, like microwaves to treat malaria and an electronic nose to detect tuberculosis.

Okay, before you dismiss this as very rich people having way too much fun with money, let me rush to point out one thing about about condoms: They're cheap, discreet and can actually help prevent sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV, as well as pregnancy.

They've been used effectively for centuries. The problem is that they are not used consistently because men say they interrupt the pleasure of sex. ("Like taking a shower with your clothes on." Or, so I've heard.). So the Gates Foundation is calling for new shapes, materials and packaging that "significantly preserve or enhance pleasure, in order to improve uptake and regular use."

I'm actually quite taken by the Origami Condom. Shaped like miniature accordions, the company's website claims that "these silicone rubbers fit loosely and aim to simulate the feeling of sex without a condom".

They also boast a 2.8 seconds "application time," says the website, which presumably means they go on easily.

Yes, well, right. Of course. That would be important. Of course.

Moving on in the news.......

In France, women are now entitled to a full reimbursement for the cost of their abortion and girls aged 15-18 are also guaranteed free birth control (both for the contraceptive pill and the implant).

This is major news - on both sides of the issue.

For those on the Religious Right, this is not an issue of public health, it is a major issue of morality and ethics. These Good Christian Folk bemoan that the government is not only playing "executioner" to the "unborn," but now also allowing their daughters to have sex whenever they wish, without having to consider the consequences and be the "moral barometers" of society to hold young men under some "restraint".

I am not making that up. That's the argument. Really.

For feminists and liberals, this is a major victory, giving women of childbearing age control of her own reproductive health. This is important on many, many levels, but especially because of the socio-political recognition that women still struggle to attain financial equality with men. As long as that playing field is not level, all others - including the freedom to have access to contraception and abortion - are not equal. When you live in a country like France where there is Socialized Medicine, allowing reimbursement for abortion care makes sense.

Since increasing access to birth control has consistently been shown to reduce abortion rates, French authorities are expecting to see a drop in the amount of women requiring abortions now that the law is effective.

Of course, others are predicting that, now that abortions are "free", everyone will want them - even those who hadn't considered it before. Or, if you've had one before, you'll want another.

You know, like free refills for your coffee or soda at fast food restaurants. You can hardly finish the cup you're drinking, just thinking about the fact that that next cup will be FREE!

Which is no doubt why, when the bill passed in October, the Minister of Health, Marisol Touraine, explained that it was a "public health choice" and she took the opportunity to remind people that abortion is "never a trivial act" for women.

Because, apparently, some people do need to be reminded of that.

Finally came the news on Friday that a US Federal Judge from the Eastern District of New York ordered that the most common morning-after pill be made available over the counter for all ages, instead of requiring a prescription for girls 16 and younger.

Not only that, Judge Edward R. Korman poked his finger right into the middle of the hornet's nest and accused the Obama administration of putting politics ahead of science. He concluded that the administration had not made its decisions based on scientific guidelines, and that its refusal to lift restrictions on access to the pill, Plan B One-Step, was “arbitrary, capricious and unreasonable.” 

He is right, of course. It was politics, unpure and complicated as politics always is. Or, in the judge's words, "arbitrary, capricious and unreasonable."

At the time of the decision, Mr. Obama was campaigning for reelection. Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius said that the manufacturer had failed to provide clinical evidence that the drug was safe for children under age 11, about 10% of whom are physically able to bear children.

A weak argument, to be sure, which might have been convincing if she and the FDA had not approved the large scale administration of the HPV vaccine to 10-11 year old girls, even though the vaccine manufacturer conducted exactly ZERO studies on the negative effects of the HPV vaccine on that young age group.

The folks from the Religious Right are predictably hysterical. You may remember Michele Bachmann's breathless report of the story told to her by the mother of "the poor little girl" who "felt forced" to allow her child to have the HPV vaccine and "now she has mental retardation".

These folks will stop at absolutely nothing. Not perpetuating ignorance. Not pandering to pseudoscience. Not fanning the flames of anxiety and fear.

Nothing. 

The folks on the Religious Right have always called "Plan B" the "abortion pill". It is not.

RU-486, sold as Mifeprex, is a prescription drug for medical abortion. Mifeprex is used after a woman is already pregnant. Plan B is an emergency contraceptive. It is used to prevent pregnancy.

It does not "abort" a fetus because, 72 hours after unprotected, unplanned sexual intercourse, there is yet no fetus to abort.  Plan B prevents pregnancy from happening in much the same way that other oral contraceptives do.

Plan B acts primarily by stopping the release of an egg from the ovary. It may prevent a sperm from fertilizing the egg. If fertilization does occur, Plan B may prevent a fertilized egg from attaching to the womb. If a fertilized egg is implanted prior to taking Plan B, Plan B will not work and pregnancy proceeds normally.

It's not rocket science. It's biology. It's the way the reproductive system has worked since the beginning. Nothing has changed except we now have a deeper understanding of how the human body works - including our ability to reproduce. 

Again, the issues surrounding this decision are fraught with overlays of religion and morality and conversations about parental control and responsibility. 

Which brings me to a point I want to make about all of this.

None of these things - Condoms, Government subsidized abortion and contraception, and emergency Plan B contraception available without prescription to anyone young woman who needs it - will ever replace Plan A: Education and Awareness. For parents and their children.

Yes, "boys will be boys" - and "girls will be girls". Adolescence will always be a dangerous time of pushing and testing boundaries and exploring identity and experimentation.  Even parents and kids with the best, open relationship will have difficulty discussing issues of human sexuality in general and sex in particular.

Here's the thing: The best parental responsibility is to teach our children responsibility by modeling that behavior. And, that includes allowing them a "Plan B" to which they have free access when they make a mistake - just as adults sometimes do.

Boys and men must take responsibility for their own behavior, just as girls and women. But, it's not women who are responsible for the morality of men, much less the whole of society. We all are. That includes providing medical prophylactic alternatives for reproductive choices for women and men - including condoms which men might actually use consistently as well as a medicine like Plan B which women can use when that is deemed necessary or imperative.

I'm sure of one thing: The personal will always be political, and there ain't nothing more personal than a woman's reproductive system.  Which is why it will always be political.

And, it's why news like this will always catch my attention, no matter where I am or how good or bad I'm feeling.  The progress in Reproductive Rights has always been the most difficult to achieve and the most tenuous to maintain.

Vigilance and persistence are key to preventing further erosion of the progress we've been able to make over the last 50 years since the Birth Control Pill was made widely available.

Which is why my personal "Plan A" is to pay attention. Always. And, everywhere.

Random acts of illness

Yes. I have pneumonia. Recovering, actually. Enough to have the strength to sit up and write this.

Oh, I've been sick before. Back stuff, mostly. And, some very bad colds - maybe even the flu, once - where you just feel more miserable than actually sick-unto-death.

I have never had pneumonia. I wouldn't recommend it. Ever.

See that symptom chart above? I had every single one of those symptoms.

Every. Single. One.

The high temps are the worst. 102.2. Feeling so cold on the inside and yet burning up on the outside causing your whole body to have a bad case of the shivery-shakes.  And then, in the middle of the night, when the fever breaks, you wake up in a cold pool of your own sweat.

Lovely. Um, not.

It's the worst - exceeded only by the fear that, as you listen to yourself wheeze and feel like an elephant is sitting on your chest, you are going to die. And then, you're afraid you won't die.

No, no. Wait. The worst is feeling like your arms have turned to stuffed sausage and every joint in your body - from your jaw to your elbows to your knees and feet - hurt.  Which makes you nauseous.

No, no. Wait. The worst is feeling all of this and hearing your doctor say, "You have to drink 8 glasses of water a day. You can't let the mucous get caught in your lungs or it will turn to cement."

And so, sick as you are, and as difficult as it is to breathe, as difficult as it is to remember the count (Was that the fourth or fifth?), you "push fluids". And, run to the bathroom every 20 minutes.

Despite my allergies, I have a pretty strong immune system. I take a daily multi-vitamin, plus supplemental Vitamin B, C and D as well as Calcium. I get regular exercise, good amounts of sleep and I eat quite well, thank you very much.

My doc says that I probably picked something up on the non-stop airplane trip I made to LA to see one of our daughters a week ago. That clearly wasn't helped by my allergies which went into overdrive with all the Easter lilies on the altar last Sunday.

So, here's the thing - the point of this blog post:  I know people who have had pneumonia. I know it used to kill people. Still does, in some places in the world. Today? In this country? Why, all you need is a good antibiotic, maybe some steroids, an inhaler, and, oh, yeah, lots of fluid.

I've been pretty blase about pneumonia. I mean, it's a very treatable illness with an extraordinarily high recovery rate. I am so sorry if I have been dismissive of those of you who have suffered with pneumonia in the passt.

I never knew that even the relatively short time from diagnosis to treatment to recovery could be so miserable. And, sometimes the parts of the treatment seem worse than the disease.

Oh, you probably never felt dismissed. At least, I hope not. I know how to be empathic. I've discovered that sympathy is better than empathy. Much better. I mean, empathy is a good thing, truly, but there's nothing like someone who has gone through what you're going through to really hear you and understand and communicate that understanding.

And, now, I can be even more authentic as I sit with you when have pneumonia. Which I hope never happens, but if it does, I'm your girl.

Maybe that's the point of this whole episode in my life. And, it must have a point. I mean, it couldn't just be a random thing, right? Like, I just happened to be sitting on a plane in the very seat where the person before me was harboring pneumonia, or breathing in the recycled air where someone on the plane was coughing and sneezing and I just happened to get it for absolutely no reason at all.

Look, I "do" randomness. I love randomness. I think randomness enhances life, if we are open to it and let it in. Yes, even the bad stuff.

I just don't believe randomness doesn't have a point or a lesson. That, in fact, is the best thing about randomness. It's like a pop quiz the universe hands you - except when the universe gives you a pop quiz, the only "right answer" is the lesson you learn from the experience.

So, that's why I wrote this post.

Oh, and because I got to complain and whine for a few minutes.

It's annoying, I know, but I'll tell you what: It's just as effective but feels much better than having to drink 8 glasses of water a day.

Random acts of illness. Just one of the universe's 'pop quizzes' where the only way to fail is to not learn the lesson it brought you. 

I thought that up all by myself. 

Which just goes to show what weird thoughts can flow through a water-logged brain after drinking 8 glasses of water a day.

Oh, and insufferable boredom.

Long live God!

The processional cross - Easter Day - ASRB

Easter Day - March 31, 2013 

All Saints Episcopal Church, Rehoboth Beach, DE

(the Rev'd Dr.) Elizabeth Kaeton

 

(sung) Long live God! Long live God! Long live God! Long live God!

+In the name of God, who is Beloved, who is Love and who Loves us unconditionally.

This morning, this Easter Day, we find ourselves caught somewhere between our cultural celebration of Easter eggs and baby bunnies and precious little chicks and Easter candy and beautiful flowers – and the ancient texts of Isaiah, John’s Gospel and the report in the Book of Acts as the early church grapples with what to make of the Resurrection – and what we, thoroughly modern American people, are supposed to believe.

It’s not an easy place for the most devout, practicing Christian. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for those of you who are among the fastest rising demographic in America - the “Spiritual but not Religious” or “the Nones”– to make any sense of it all.

I’ve read the statistics, and I’m willing to bet that there are more of you who would describe yourself as “The Nones” or – “Spiritual but not Religious” here this morning than there are traditional Episcopalians.   

I understand. You’re here out of a sense of duty or obligation – or because mom or dad or perhaps even your Nana and Pop-Pop gave you “the look” which told you that you had better just put on your dress or that suit and tie and get your sassy self to church, or no Easter chocolate for you!

It’s okay. I understand.  That’s why I’m talking directly to you this morning – the “Nones”. And, I want to talk to what I like to call the “Somes” because I know that some of you here today are faithful Christians who simply don’t understand the Resurrection. You want to but for the life of you, it just doesn’t make sense. You want to believe, but you doubt – and you secretly feel bad about that doubt.

Here’s a message in which I hope you will find some comfort and solace. If you’re looking for the celebration of the Resurrection to make sense, take heart! Let me assure you that it doesn’t. Make sense, that is. It just doesn’t. 

In fact, it’s downright absurd!

Informed as we are by scientific and technological advances, what is the modern, logical mind to make of the ancient vision of Isaiah of “a new heaven and a new earth” and the reports of those who were witnesses to the empty tomb where Jesus had been buried?

If we are to use the metric of Isaiah’s prophecy of the Peaceful Kingdom – where “the wolf and the lamb will feed together and the lion will eat straw like the ox” – if that’s what Jesus was supposed to accomplish, then, by any standard – ancient or modern – Jesus seems an abysmal failure.  He seems to have suffered and died for nothing. I mean, what’s the point of the crucifixion, anyway?

In this morning’s lesson from ACTS, we hear Peter say, “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts from every nation the one who fears him and does what is right.”

We long to realize the truth Peter speaks, but we only need listen to the debates about violence and gun control and Marriage Equality and Reproductive Justice and look at the nuclear threat of North Korea and the wall separating Israel from Palestine and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to know that we are no closer to achieving the dream of God in Christ than the early church was more than 2,000 years ago.

It seems a bit of a conundrum, then, to continue to celebrate the resurrection of God in Christ for which there is little, if any, historical evidence, much less scientific basis, and the effects of which simply failed to achieve its intended goal. 

As one person said to me, just this week, “Well, what do you expect if you believe that God allowed a hideously violent death of His Son? Do you really expect the Peaceful Kingdom to emerge from abandonment and betrayal and violence?”

Well, call me crazy, but yes. Yes, in fact, I do.

That’s because I believe in mystery. I believe in the mystery of the Trinity. I believe that there is a Sacred Unity to God in Three Persons – the One who Creates, the One who is Christ and the One who is Holy Spirit. I believe in this mystery because I believe that we are all connected, one to the other, and with all of the rest of creation.

The truth about being in relationship is that, in order for any relationship – friendship, marriage, community – to work, something inside each one of us needs to die in service to the other – or, another, greater good. 

Yes, the commercial jingle about hair products is right: You ARE worth it. But, it’s not all about “you.”  It’s not all about “me”. It’s about “us”. The “Sacred We”. Or, as Desmond Tutu’s Unbuntu theology teaches: “I am because you are.” This is true because of the sacred mystery of The Trinity.

God is ‘The Great I Am’ because Jesus is the Christ. And, the Holy Spirit who swirled over the chaos in the beginning and brought creation into being is ‘The Great I Am’ who also breathed life into the dead human body of Jesus and brought us the gift of new life.

The amazing mystery and truth of the Resurrection is that God allowed a part of Godself – which we call ‘the Son’ – to die so that we might more fully live into the gift of our creation. And, that gift is this: Free will.

It is autonomy with responsibility. We are free to make choices about how we live our lives in community. And, about the deaths we choose to die. And, good choices or bad choices, God loves us still. Unconditionally.  Or, as we hear St. Peter say in the Book of Acts, “all those who believe in God are forgiven.”

So, if you sacrificed your sense of fashion or decency or doubt to be here this morning, whether you know it or not, you are participating in the mystery and the miracle of the Resurrection. You have allowed something in you to die in service of someone you love.

Just imagine – try to imagine for one red hot New York minute – how great a love God has for us to allow a piece of Godself to suffer and die in service of people like you and me, those who had not yet been born at the time, but God knew were to come.

The Nigerian writer, Chinua Achebe, once wrote of an old African proverb: “Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”

I believe that the reason the story of the Resurrection continues to have such power is because it is the story of the hunted – not the hunters. It is the story of those who were hunted and still triumphed. It is the story of how sacrifice of the self in service of a greater good will always triumph over prejudice and oppression and violence.

I am talking to you this morning because I believe you – “The Nones”, the “Somes” and the “Spiritual but not Religious” – are God’s best hope for attaining The Peaceable Kingdom.

I believe that while the institutional church, more often than not, tangles itself up in the powers and principalities of the world, those who concern themselves with bringing beauty and justice and compassion and peace into the world – whether or not they are members of the institutional church – will have the greatest impact on ushering the Dream of God into the world. 

You keep us honest. You confront the institution with our own arrogance and pride in thinking we’ve got it all figured out.

So, if you don’t understand the Resurrection, perhaps you’ll understand something about the Easter Egg and why it is such a powerful cultural icon of the Resurrection.

I was recently told by a chicken farmer I care for as a Hospice Chaplain that, when a chick is about to hatch, if you try to help it by cracking the egg, it will not live long. It may hatch, but it will, in fact, die. 

There’s something about the struggle to have life that makes us strong.  There’s something about embracing the struggle to live that gives us the strength to live life more fully. The Easter Egg is about that struggle, that potential for new life that is within us all. And, because of the life and death and resurrection of Jesus, we know that God is with us in the struggle.

And, Easter Bunnies? Well, they are a cultural icon of the abundance of life that God offers us all.  Bunnies are the gift that keeps on giving.

And, Easter flowers? Well, you only have to watch a daffodil push its head up against the hard, cold earth to understand the power of new life.

And, Easter chocolates? Ah, that is the sweetness of God’s unconditional love.

And, Easter bonnets? Well, they are a cultural icon of the beauty of that new life we are promised in the Resurrection.  That’s why I wore mine this morning.

My Holy Week meditation includes listening to the cultural interpretations of the life of Jesus in the musicals ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ and ‘Godspell.’ 

There’s a song in Godspell that I especially love because it is a modern way of understanding the ancient power of Resurrection. The church often misses communicating that because, I think, we make it too complicated.

That’s why I think we – the church – need “the Nones” and the “Somes” and the “Spiritual but not Religious.” To remind us of the essence of the message of the story.

After Jesus has died, the women – like Mary Magdalene in this morning’s Gospel – begin to sing, “Long live God! Long live God! Long live God! Long live God!”  And then the men – like Peter and Andrew and John – begin to sing, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord!”

It’s the message of the Resurrection. The lion of truth has triumphed over the hunters. They can kill the messenger but they can’t kill the message – the dream – of peace and justice and hope and self-sacrificing love. 

That message of the hunted lions is why The Episcopal Church has taken sometimes unpopular, counter-cultural stands on the rights of workers to a living wage – not just a minimum wage – and Immigration Reform, and Marriage Equality, and Reproductive Justice and Gun Control.

When we are at our best as a church – as Christians who proclaim to be the Body of Christ – we are the hunted lions of God’s truth who are going to write history by creating a new heaven and a new earth. 

We will turn the empty tombs into wombs of creativity and imagination and possibility and hope for those who have lost all hope of liberation.

Long live God! Prepare ye the way of the Lord! It’s happening again and will happen again, as sure as Spring will – finally! – arrive, bringing with it new life.

If you can’t remember anything about the details of the Resurrection, I hope you remember the essence of the message of the Resurrection this Easter Day.

Just to prove to you how crazy I really am, and how I believe in mystery and miracles, I’m going to ask you to sing it with me. Yes, sing.  And clap your hands. Yes, in church. If you know nothing else about the Resurrection, you’ll know this song and it’s message.

And, tomorrow, when you’re back to work or school, and someone asks if you went to church on Easter Day, and you say yes and they roll their eyes like you are an idiot, you’ll smile and sing:

Long live God! Long live God! Long live God! Long live God

Prepare ye the way of the Lord! Prepare ye the way of the Lord!

Amen!

 

Internalized pink collar oppression

One of the few print magazines I still order and read...faithfully... is Christian Century.

I found the following in the "Century Marks" section, summarized from an article in the February 1 issue of Christian Science Monitor:

When Pastor Alois Bell's group was hit with a mandatory 18 percent service charge in an Applebee's restaurant in St. Louis, she wrote a biting note on the receipt: "I give God 10%. Why do you get 18%?"

When the waitress posted the receipt online it went viral. Bell later said that writing the note showed a lapse in judgment, but she complained to the restaurant about the unwanted publicity given to her and her church. Applebee's fired the waitress. Shocked by her dismissal, the waitress said, 'I come home exhausted, sore, burnt, dirty, and blistered on a good day. And after all that, I can be fired for 'embarrassing' someone who directly insults their server on religious grounds."

I'm not sure of the moral of this story. 

Clearly, both women were wrong: The pastor for being understandably outraged but expressing it in  way that, ultimately, embarrassed the restaurant. And, of course, the waitress was wrong for being understandably frustrated but expressing it in a public forum, without disguising the identity of the customer, clearly intending to embarrass her.

Applebee's - like many restaurants - charges an 18% gratuity for large groups because, as I understand it, it's more work for the kitchen, wait and bus staff to serve more than six or eight people at a time and get the various meals served all together and on time. So, the waitress does benefit - I'm using the term generously here - from that company policy.

What I'm wondering is why Applebee's thought to fire the employee. I mean, I certainly don't know all the details, but it seems to me that there might have been a few things Applebee's might have done before firing the employee.

Of course, they "want to send a message" - to their employees as well as the public that they will not tolerate public embarrassment of their customers.

And, you know, waitresses are a dime a dozen. Haven't you heard? Unemployment is sky high. Lots of people are standing in line for the chance to have a job as a waitress.

Except, did you read what the waitress wrote. You know, the stuff about "exhausted, sore, burnt, dirty, and blistered" - and that's on a good day. Most wait staff make less than minimum wage and increase that meager sum by the tips they make.

I'm not certain - and, I'm sure some reader out there will correct me - but I'm betting 18% of my next paycheck that the waitress didn't get 18% of that gratuity - and I'm not talking about what she has to share with the kitchen staff and the guys who buss the tables. I'm thinking that Applebee's is making a cut of that gratuity, too.

As I said, I'm not sure of the moral of this story but I think there's a message. It's not about the abuse of public media. And, it's not about a pastor's outrage at the 18% gratuity. 

It's about the way these two women were set up by corporate greed.

In firing the waitress, Applebee's - or any company in that situation - looks positively virtuous and the two women look foolish.

And, they were, for targeting their outrage at each other. 

It was misdirected.

The problem is that many of us don't know - or, once knew but have forgotten - about "pink collar oppression".  We don't know - or, once knew but have forgotten - how hard it is to be part of the wait  staff in a restaurant - especially in a chain restaurant.

It's been a long time for me, but I remember. And, I remember when our kids were working as part of the wait staff to help pay for their college education.

Sometimes, tips are good. Sometimes, not so much. But the salary is always the same: below minimum wage. And, health insurance? Don't make me laugh.  Or, cry. There is none, along with no pension. No vacation days. No sick days.

The underlying assumption is that no one would ever be choose to be a waitress. It's just something you do until you find something "better". A "career".  You know. With a decent salary. And, benefits. Like vacation and sick time and health insurance and pension.

Or, a husband. Who can "provide" for you. 

Otherwise, well, you "deserve" your lot in life.  Tough luck. Destiny and all that.

Like so many in the service industry, wait staff are pretty much invisible. Which is why I always go out of my way to remember the waitresses name and address her by it. And, I always leave 20%. Breakfast or Lunch. Depending on the restaurant, I'll leave 25% for dinner.

Obviously, I don't go out to eat often.  My big splurge is going out for a late breakfast at a local diner after church on Sunday. My bill is usually $12. I always leave a $5 tip.

That's my protest against the Sequester.

My plea in this post is to take your gaze away from the two women. And, please, don't get caught up in the  the whole "insult the server on religious grounds" argument.

Besides, most people don't give God 10%. Well, not in my experience with most people in The Episcopal Church, anyway. They may "pledge" to the Church, but certainly not 10% of their income. If anything, wait staff get better "tips" than God. Indeed, I'm willing to bet that more Christians spend more money in restaurants than they spend in a "pledge" to the church.

That's not the point.

Instead of getting caught up in this "cat fight", keep your focus on the corporation and the "industry standards" that keep women at the lower end of the pay scale. 

It's a set up for misdirected anger - mainly, at each other.

It's an old trick. Don't fall for it.  It's called "bartering". It's a strategy to have the oppressed argue over crumbs of 1% while the corporation keeps 99% of the pie.

That's really the strategy of the Sequester. Budget for Meals On Wheels vs. Food Stamps and WIC (Women, Infants and Children). Budget for Head Start vs. Budget for Medicare. All over and against the Budget for Defense vs. Homeland Security. Tax cuts vs. closing tax loop holes for the wealthy.

Bartering also leads to internalized oppression - which is exactly what we're seeing in this situation as described in the Christian Science Monitor.

I hope Applebee's will be convinced to rehire the waitress. Indeed, I'm hoping that Pastor Bell will advocate for that action.

It's the only way to reverse the effects of bartering and internalized oppression.

The other, of course, is to be as generous as you can be with wait - and hotel - staff.

And, advocate with your local businesses and local, state and federal government officials for a living wage vs a minimum wage.

Or, as Mother Jones said, "Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living."

It's really the only way out of oppression - internalized or imposed.

Habent papa

 Yes, indeed, they do.

Habent papa. They have a Pope.

Just in case you haven't been paying attention - and, how could you escape, really? - his name is Jorge Mario Bergoglio, and he is the seventy-six-year-old Archbishop of Buenos Aires.

But, you can just call him Pope Francis. Not "the first" - even though he is. You can't call him that, apparently, until the second pope takes the name "Francis".

He's a "new pope" in more ways than the first to be called "Francis". He's the first non-European pope in centuries - underlying the assumption that the church's center of gravity has shifted to the poorer, so-called "Third World" countries of Africa, Asia and Latin America. He's the first Jesuit - formerly known as the "enemy of orthodoxy". He's the first to bow and ask for prayers from the crowd before pronouncing his first Papal Blessing.  And, he's the first to give a one-handed wave to the crowds, rather than the both-arms-up gesture which always seemed to me to  be asking for more applause.

He's known as a "reformer" but you have to understand what that means around the Vatican. It’s important to  remember that all of the 114 electing cardinals - the "young ones", meaning, under age 80 -  were appointed by the last two Popes, and that, when it comes to any interest in loosening the doctrinal strictures that most lay Catholics would call “reform,” they were appointed mainly for their intransigence in the face of change.

That means that you will not see women in the priesthood anytime soon; or married clergy; or an end to the bans on divorce, abortion, and contraception; or a reprieve for the nuns in trousers (aka "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants") who go forth to give food, music, and solace to the poor (despite the fact that this pope apparently has a preferential option for the poor); or even an acknowledgement that “unrepentant” gay and lesbian Catholic men and women might, conceivably, get to heaven.

Nope. There'll be none of that from habent papa.

In fact, then-Cardinal Jose Bergoglio was a major force against the 2010 move to legalize same-sex marriage in his native Argentina. Though he ultimately failed, Bergoglio used the full weight of the church to crush the measure.

From a letter to the Carmelite Sisters of Buenos Aires on the perils of marriage equality:

“Let’s not be naïve, we’re not talking about a simple political battle; it is a destructive pretension against the plan of God. We are not talking about a mere bill, but rather a machination of the Father of Lies that seeks to confuse and deceive the children of God.”

Le sigh!

And then, there's the unholy mess around the accusations that the hierarchy of Argentina’s Catholic Church was complicit with the military genocide.

Some researchers have linked Cardinal Bergoglio with the “desaparición” - the disappearance, in May 1976 - of two Jesuit priests who worked in the slums of Buenos Aires. Both were kidnapped and tortured.

The cardinal has always denied involvement, but many Argentines (including one dear friend) remain convinced that he “withdrew protection” from the priests, allowing the military to prey on them. 

No, let's be very clear: the "reform", most clerics are hoping that their new pope will begin to remove the taint of scandal that hangs like black smoke over the Vatican - the scandal of widespread pedophilia, of Vatican banking fraud, and of money-laundering schemes we know about from the famous two-volume papal commission report on “Vatileaks”—said by sources quoted in La Repubblica to include claims of blackmail paid out of Vatican funds to keep the secrets of an alleged gay cabal in the Holy See.

These reports now resides in a for-your-eyes-only safe in the papal suite, waiting to be opened by the new Pope Francis. The hope is that habent papa will actually open it, read it, and begin to do something about it. Like, say, firing a few people and putting into place new policies of transparency to replace the entrenched Vatican theology of ....um... "forgiveness" which has allowed the ...um..."traditions" of the past to remain in place - along with pedophile priests and corrupt, money-laundering clerics.

Hey, it could happen. As St. Paul writes, "I am a prisoner of hope." I just don't place it in the hierarchy of the church. Did once. Not any more.

I'm pretty much with Sr. Joan Chittister on this one. I'm weary of it all.  She writes in Who are the People who were waiting for Pope Francis?:

It gets spiritually exhausting to go on waiting for a pastor again and instead getting a scolding, reactionary church whose idea of perfection is the century before the last one rather than the century after this one.
 

They're weary of seeing contraception being treated as more sinful than the sexual abuse of children.

All in all, they're weary of being told, "Don't even think about it." They're weary of being treated as if they are bodies and souls without a brain.

It's weariness, weariness, weariness. It's not an angry, violent, revolutionary response. It's much worse than that. It's a weary one, and weariness is a very dangerous thing.

When people are weary, they cease to care; they cease to listen; they cease to wait.

These are the kind of people who waited for a new pope, whatever kind of man he might be.

To be perfectly honest, I've got 99 problems on my plate, and the new pope ain't one of them.

I think the Anglican Communion has enough on its hands with Justin Welby, the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Then, there's the legal mess over the property disputes in the Episcopal Church in Texas and South Carolina. And, don't even get me started on necessary Title IV revision. 

I'm genuinely happy for my Roman Catholic friends who are happy and excited about the possibility their new pope brings to their beleaguered church. I wish them well.

I hope Pope Francis at least "reforms" the Vatican and gets that house in order.  Then, perhaps, with a new transparency in all things financial and ecclesiastic, the Roman Catholic Church will be as humble as the new pope is reported to be and, with an emphasis on ministry with the poor and oppressed, more minds will be opened to see spiritual poverty and ecclesiastical oppression in the Household of God.

That's my hope and prayer for my sister and brother Roman Catholics who are trying Very Hard to convince me that their hopes and prayers are well placed.

They could be very wrong.

Then again, if you want infallibility, you're going to have to talk to habent papa, Pope Francis.

Take a breath!

The Republican led legislature in Arkansas overrode a veto by the Democratic Governor to pass the most restrictive law in the country: Abortion after 12 weeks is now banned in that state.

This was a "compromise". The original proposal was to ban abortion after 6 weeks. Wary of the national firestorm that erupted last year after Virginia tried to require an intrusive transvaginal procedure, proponents revised the bill to specify that a fetal heartbeat should be detected by abdominal ultrasound or other external methods, which are not feasible at six weeks. 

The earliest a fetal heartbeat can typically be heard / seen by abdominal ultrasound is 12 weeks.

The law contradicts the limit established by Supreme Court decisions, which give women a right to an abortion until the fetus is viable outside the womb, usually around 24 weeks into pregnancy.

Even some anti-abortion leaders called the measure a futile gesture. 

Unfortunately, the Arkansas Legislature is hardly alone in its devotion to turning out new abortion restrictions. Last year, 19 states enacted 43 new provisions seeking to curb access to abortion services, according to a report from the Guttmacher Institute. 

In 2011, 92 such measures were passed. So far this year, 278 such provisions have been introduced in state legislatures that would narrow abortion rights in a host of ways. Another 18 measures would limit access to contraception. 

Not all of these will get enacted, of course, but undoubtedly some of them will. At this point, three states are down to just a single abortion provider, including Mississippi, where a medically unnecessary rule requiring that doctors have visiting privileges at local hospitals is threatening to close down the state’s last clinic. 

The Republican right-wing hysteria over reproductive rights rights continues unabated  and apparently unchastened by their party’s lagging support among women as well as the Republican rebranding efforts to soften the Tea Party's line-in-the-sand approach to all things political. 

Excuse the metaphor, but the underlying motto seems to be "damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead" for some Republicans who want to reassert the primacy of the penis.

Here's what's caught me up short in the new Arkansas law: The philosophical / medical / legal / theological basis of the law is a 12-week old beating heart.

Most of the right-wing Republicans are ..... (ahem) "informed"..... by an Evangelical or Roman Catholic theological interpretation of scripture.

So, when did the heartbeat become the scriptural basis for determining life?

Everything I read in scripture about life is about breath. God's breath. Ruach. The Spirit of life.

From both stories of Creation in Genesis - God's breath swirled over chaos and brought it into order AND God's breath animated the life of Adam and Eve - to the story of the Valley of the Dry Bones - Ezekiel 37:1-14 - to Jesus dying on the cross and "giving up his last breath", to the gift of the Resurrection at Pentecost - everything involves breath.

When a baby is born, the required APGAR score includes pulse rate AND breathing. 

When a person is found unconscious, first-responders are trained to check for a pulse AND breath sounds. When efforts begin to save the life, cardiac compression AND mouth-to-mouth resuscitation are required.

When a person is "pronounced" dead, the legal document filled out by the doctor or nurse requires documentation of the absence of a pulse/heart beat AND breath sounds.

I suppose the 'heartbeat' argument has its own logic - if you buy into the idea that "life begins at conception".

NEWSFLASH: There is to heart to beat at conception.  At that point it's just a collection of cells.

The language of Roe v. Wade, allowing abortion before 24 weeks gestation, is predicated on the understanding that, at that point, life is sustainable outside the womb. That is, the heart may be developed but the lungs have not yet developed enough for the fetus to breathe on its own.

Or, at least, the fetus would have enough lung development to be able to receive medical assistance to support life - i.e, BREATH - in order to have some kind of QUALITY OF LIFE after birth.

Why? Because we need heart and lungs - pulse and breath - to have life.

So, why the focus on the heartbeat?

Despite the obvious emotional appeal, it is no doubt because a heartbeat is an easy enough measurement to discern in utero - after approximately 12 weeks. However, it's only one of two measurements of "life". It's the heart AND the lungs. A pulse AND breath sounds.

The complexity of this issue was brought into focus by the case of Tamara Mann, a Jewish woman living in Ohio and the case of an "optional" vs "voluntary" abortion.  The 13 week fetus she was carrying had been determined, on routine sonogram, to be seriously deformed:

He (the doctor) saw me, gestured for me to come to his office, and referred to the ailing life in my belly as a baby. "This isn't good," he whispered. "It's really not. Let me show you." He was kind but clear. "The organs are not inside the baby's body. The hands and feet are curled, actually one limb seems to be stunted or missing. The neck isn't right. This really doesn't look good."

A week later, her own doctor called her with the news:

"Tamara, I have looked at the scans and I have shown the scans to doctors in my office. I want to tell you that we all agree that this fetus is not compatible with life. It will not survive the pregnancy. You should get it removed immediately. The longer you wait the more risks are involved." 

She was, of course, devastated, and sought the advice of her Rabbi:

The idea of "removing" my baby, my fetus, while its heart was still beating was simply unbearable. Was it living? Was it still growing? Would I be stopping the heartbeat, cutting short its life? And what do I do after the operation? Do I bury it? I didn't understand what I had inside of me and I didn't understand what I should do. I called a dear friend, an Orthodox rabbi, who I knew would be both compassionate and firm. After consulting with his rabbi, he said the case was clear. In situations where the mother's health is at risk and the fetus (he explicitly said fetus) is not viable, Jewish law errs on the side of the mother's health. I should have the operation and I should not bury the fetus -- it is not a life. 

The situation was far from over, however. The hospital called the next morning:

"Because your fetus still has a heartbeat, it has been our experience that insurance companies in Ohio will not cover the costs of the operation. They consider it an optional abortion. Our office suggests that you go to Planned Parenthood, which will only run you $800. If you go to the hospital it will be over $10,000."

You can read the rest of this heart-wrenching story here.  The author, Tamara Mann, asks: "What is going on here? Why have so many people settled on the heartbeat as the best marker of life in-utero? This is not science. It is the tyranny of a metaphor." She says:

Life is not instantaneous. It is an arduous, miraculous, process. So many steps have to align -- so much has to go exactly right for a baby to take its first breath. When we start to think of life this way, the pro-choice/pro-life debates seem to me almost cruel. Neither accurately explains the moral nuance of each individual's situation or honors the complexity of creation. I wish we could reframe the debate and talk more about what it would mean to honor the sanctity of life. To honor the actual lives of pregnant women and the potential lives they hold within them. 

I share Tamara's wish.

Here's a simplistic response to the simplistic idea of a heartbeat defining life: Don't want an abortion? Don't have one. But, please don't hold a woman's life captive to the "tyranny of a metaphor" and embrace the complexity of everything that makes up life.

Here's a more complex response to those who oppose abortion: Don't want an abortion? Work to eradicate the reasons many women have an abortion: Poverty. Lack of quality education. Lack of access to quality medical care. Domestic violence.

In the midst of the current high-testosterone debate about reproductive rights - everything from contraception to third-trimester abortions - I wish we would all take a breath and reframe the debate to talk about what it would mean to honor the sanctity of life - from womb to tomb.

Given the fact that so much about the debate over reproductive rights - like the sequester and the filibuster on cabinet nominations - is based less on getting to a workable solution and more on proving which side can "win", taking a breath and reframing the debate may prove to be as "futile a gesture" as the Arkansas law to prohibit abortion after 12 weeks.

I don't know what gesture wouldn't be futile when defending against the tyranny of a metaphor. 

At this point, however, I think there's ample and sound biblical foundation for it - allowing the breath of God to breathe over the chaos of this time and bring us some inspiration to honor and respect all life.

That's a choice we all have.

And, it's one we can all make.

Peach Sandwiches and Sweet Tea

Jacques Linard

I've always been fascinated by the way a sight or sound or smell can trigger a memory.

I used to wear essence of Patchouli - a "busty herb of the mint family". I'd get a bottle at the health food store and put just a few drops behind the ears and on my wrists. After a while, my entire closet and all my bureau draws reeked of the stuff. More than one of my friends would remark "I smelled you before you walked into the room".

I loved the earthy fragrance of it - mostly because it reminded me of my late teens - early twenties, when, it seemed, every friend's apartment I walked into was burning a stick of Patchouli incense. The prevailing ....um... "wisdom" at the time was that Patchouli would mask the smell of pot, but even if you didn't actually .... um ... "imbibe", it was a signal that you were "cool" enough to know that it did and some might infer that you, in fact, had had a bit of a "toke" before your guests arrived, so you were cool no matter what.

And, at that time, being "cool" - or even just the illusion of being "cool" - was very, very important. I suspect it still is. It's definition is just different for each generation.

Besides, Patchouli was very inexpensive. A small bottle used to cost a few bucks and last forever. As an added bonus, you seemed very "cool" to anyone who had ever "grooved" to the music of Buffalo Springfield or the Doobie Brothers or The Guess Who or Bob Dylan or Joan Baez or ....

Well, now I'm calling up other memories, right?  Okay, for a certain generation of people.

Just the other day, I walked into a health food store and someone was burning a stick of Patchouli incense and my mind was instantly transported to another time and place. That one fragrance brought a rush of memories - I could hear the music of  "House of the Rising Sun", feel my colorful macrame bag hanging off my shoulder, and even taste pizza - that staple of youth - in my mouth. 

No, I've never "dropped acid" or other hallucinatory drugs. Yes, I have tried pot. Many, many years ago. It just made me very hungry for Oreo cookies and I just figured, what was the point of that?

I think the senses are a very powerful link to memories.

One of the real enjoyments of eating fresh peaches in the summertime involves not just the taste of those particular fruits, but the memories they stir. I can take a bite of a fresh, warm peach and as the sticky-sweet nectar is dripping down my face and arms, I'm instantly transported to the picnic table at my grandparent's house - the one under the grape vine which my grandfather used to make his own wine and my grandmother used to make the best grape jelly I've ever had.

Suddenly, I'm six years old and my grandmother has brought a bowl of peaches to the table on a beautiful early summer afternoon. I can feel the warm sunshine on my face and hear the wind rustling through the trees and the vines which filled their backyard. I can hear my sisters and brothers and cousins laughing and the intense debates we'd have about the peach pit.

If you put the pit in a cup of water, would it sprout? Should we bury it and see if we could grow our own peach tree? If we cut open the peach pit, what would we find in there? Would there be "baby peaches" inside?  Might it bleed? Would it hurt the pit?

One of my older cousins would say, under his breath and in Portuguese, that it looked more like "a woman's bottom".

Wherever you sat at the picnic table, you were never too far for my grandmother to give you a mighty whack on the back of your head, which sent the rest of us into gales of giggles, even if we hadn't heard, much less understood, the naughty thing that had been said.

She had magically appeared at the picnic table from the back door of the kitchen carrying a large tray and asserted that the cut open peach with the pit in the center and the red pulp surrounding it look like the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and we should think about that and give thanks for the sacrifices He made for us so we could enjoy our lunch.

Grandmothers can be weird like that.

Whatever sting my cousin felt in the back of his head dissolved into the place where our laughter fell suddenly silent as all eyes were focused on a glimpse of the heavenly banquet in which we were about to partake and which we were absolutely certain awaited us all.

On the tray was a gloriously golden round loaf of freshly baked bread - still warm from my grandmother's oven, all crusty on the outside and melt-in-your-mouth soft on the inside - a large slab of pale yellow butter on one of her delicate blue print china plates, a huge matching blue print pot of tea, and a matching print bowl of sugar and a pitcher of milk.

From the back of the tie in her apron, a large knife would magically appear and we would watch - wide-eyed and mouths gaping - as she would expertly slice the bread and give us each a generous piece to slather with butter. I can still see and smell and taste the pale yellow butter melting on the warm, soft, white bread.

Then, she would take some of the peaches out of the basket and slice them to perfection. How was it that they were warm and fuzzy on the outside and yet cool and juicy on the inside? One of the manifestations of God's amazing miracles, no doubt.

She'd hand the slices, one by one, to us, right off the knife - which drove my mother NUTZ! Oh, the dangers to which little minds were completely oblivious. We'd wait like hungry little birds in a nest, taking the slippery slice of peach, patiently building our peach sandwich.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Don't take a bite just yet! The finishing touches needed to be applied. My grandmother would dry her hands on the end of her apron before reaching into the sugar bowl to get a handful of sugar to sprinkle on top of the peaches. If you were really lucky, some of the sugar would fall onto the butter on the bread, giving it just the right "crunch".

Oh. My. Soul.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Not just yet. We all wiggled in our seats in anticipation, but how could you even think of taking a bite before offering a prayer of thanksgiving to God who had provided this amazing bounty for us, imprinted as it was with the Sacred Heart of Jesus? So, we'd close our eyes, secretly wiping the drool off the corners of our mouth, waiting for the loud AMEN.

As far as we kids were concerned, 'Amen' was 'Latin' for "Okay, kids, dig in!"

And, we did. We'd let our lips touch the warm buttered bread and the cool of the peach slice before taking a huge bite. We'd all sit there, perfectly behaved little lambs sighing in pure delight, while my grandmother fixed our cups of tea. Lots of sugar, of course, and about half tea and half milk.

There ain't nothing better than peach sandwiches and sweet tea with milk!

Well, there wasn't when I was a kid.

I confess that I haven't had a peach sandwich with sweet tea with milk in years. I think I tried it once as an adult, but store bought peaches that had been sprayed to a fairtheewell with pesticides and mass-produced bread from a factory bakery just didn't taste the same. And, nothing tastes quite like my grandmother's butter.

Of course, not all memories are as sweet. Those same peaches were also used to make peach liqueur which my father and uncles drank late into the night - after also drinking lots of homemade beer and wine and something they called "boiler makers" which was an evil concoction of beer with a shot glass of whiskey at the bottom - playing cards and getting drunk and into fights over some foolish argument about something someone said or did that everyone thought was forgotten.

To this day, I can't stand the smell or taste of beer, and as much as I love peaches, I can't go near peach liqueur, even if it's used with a dessert. 

Too many painful memories to even go there. They are best left like footprints on the sand waiting for a wave to wash them away and take them to "The Deep".

Ah, but the good memories that are stirred by a sight or sound or smell are the best.  Sometimes, I think these memories are perhaps even better than the actual, lived event.

I'm sure many scientific studies have been made on the sense-memory connection, and there's probably lots to be said about what it all means.

For me, they are little, unexpected gifts. Some I open. Others, I don't.

Some are like old friends. Some I invite in and we have a grand old time. Others, I simply stand at the door and make polite conversation until they get the hint and go away.  Still others, well, I don't even answer the knock at the door when I hear it.

One thing I know for certain, invited or not, memories will come, often triggered by one of my senses. What I do with them is my choice. My decision.

And, when a good memory comes along - like peach sandwiches and sweet tea on a  beautiful day in early summer - I am the richer for entertaining it.