work hard and be kind: goodbye to the GOP

Remember when Conan O'Brien was ousted from the Tonight Show, in a bizarre move, the fruits of which are still playing out? I do. This is one I ocassionally flash on mentally, even four years later. Beautiful, heartfelt advice, borne of pain and redeemed by kindness. (Plus, it was followed by a gyrating Will Ferrell belting out Freebird, his enormously pregnant wife and a huge American flag! Top notch.)




I find myself resenting the arrogance and the cynicism of the GOP. You know what they are, the lot of my local conservative representatives? They suffer from the very malady they like to toss casually towards constituents who don't feed their narrative. They're entitled.

Please let the record reflect that U.S. Senator Mark Begich and Alaskan Sen. Bill Wielechowski have answered my friend Allison. They both appear to see a moral imperative for healthcare to be provided. Medicine to be dispensed. As for Pruitt, Parnell, Keller, Dunleavy ~ I can only assume it doesn't fit their schedule or their schtick. An Alaskan family with oodles of military service, graduate degrees, professional work, and bootstraps integrity who needs expensive preventative care for a genetic disease? Republicans don't appear to have a pat answer for that --- and what's worse, they're ignoring the question.

Question: How is a college student living at home whose family falls under the eligibility guidelines for Denali Kidcare supposed to buy $12,000 worth of drugs each month?

Question: Can college kids, within certain age, income, and courseload boundaries, remain on Medicaid?

Every tea party tagline I've previously found solace in falls short: work hard, play fair, pay your own way. None of it applies in this case. Unless I come into money on a Romney scale, this is a healthcare expense I couldn't fudge into my budget. You probably couldn't either.

And ~ a disclosure. I truly believe the endgame of Leftist American public policy means my family is rounded up for our indiscriminate breeding habits, our religious gun-clingin', and our allegiance to anything higher than a labor union. The nerve. But are these just fear-mongering tactics, employed by hapless asshats to keep the peasants in line? One wonders. As for this day and this cause, our representatives in the Democratic party are showing professional, warm and courageous behavior. The Republicans have been silent. As if the principles (anti-abortion, small gub'mint, big liberty) of their base voting bloc gives them hostages. I owe you nothing.

Both practically and philosophically, the kicker is that a clear resolution may not come --- there may not be some dramatic shift in the Affordable Care Act, and the tragedies might continue to wander in and out of daily life under the Marketplace. The Republicans weren't expected to have superhuman powers, just humane ones. Do your job. Hardships endured by American families under the top-down insanity of the ACA appear to pad the GOP's ego-boosting ideology, rather than motivate them as problem solvers. Does anyone grasp that a young man could die due to the wild mismanagement of Obamacare --- and judging by the behavior of its leadership, my party would be content to blame the president rather than get on the phone and work for change? Loyalty is earned through risk, not platitudes.

So, I thank the Catholic mothers of these two Democratic senators. Thank you for raising sons with manners. When summarizing Rees' story, I didn't know how to end it except with a plea of sorts. I hoped that someone somewhere would simply be responsive. Maybe even someone powerful enough to effect policy change. Does the cynic in me say it could be "just to get a vote"? Sure. What are politicians, if not vessels for a vote? It's when my vote is taken for granted that I'll shake you off my shoes like so much dust. Goodbye to the Alaska Republican Party, and thank you immensely for all that I learned with you.

Six thousand barfing children

...at least that's what it feels like over here! (Okay. It was only one, but it was repeatedly, pink, and all over me.)

We can't say goodbye to winter without some round of sickness making a visit, I guess. Feeling homebound but grateful that my husband took the heavy driving rotation this afternoon. And I will return to the book typing endeavor very soon. Thanks for reading. As a hyper-social hermit, I appreciate road unity very much --- do you know the phenomena? Like I'm really impressed that people are obeying the traffic light system. It seems like a lot to ask, societally, and yet it goes off without a hitch. My first glimpse of severe road unity was a decade ago, on the Grapevine, when I didn't have any comfort level about driving in Los Angeles. It was white-knuckles all the way. My husband and I were caravan-ing for some reason, so two cars meant I had to drive. I was pretty miffed by the task, as I recall. Mostly scared of lanes that travel in the same direction, and being expected to keep a certain pace or an awareness of my surroundings. And then I remembered that life is about doing stuff that terrifies me, to some degree, so why not just ride it out? Anyway, a UHaul van was on fire on the side of the road, pulled over, in a sheen of flames and fog. The traffic was so heavy, we were making the ascent into Santa Clarita, and there they were, with likely their most treasured possessions burning into the hills along the 5 freeway. If aliens looked down it'd look like nobody cared, because nobody was pulled over to help. But we cared, it was palpable, this unity, we're travelling and your life is exploding, and our outreach is so limited, but WE ARE WITH YOU BUDDY.



vintage Caltrans, you mock me still

The great thing is my husband doesn't recall this happening at all. And he was totally there, weaving slowly ahead of me in the golden darkness. When I try to explain road unity, and how momentous and beautiful this thing was that we shared, he shrugs. Me? Psychologically scarred, changed, a permanent reference point of humanity buoying each other along. Those Angelenos are hard. (actually, he's from Orange County and they're all pretty soft...)

Anyway, blogging is often like that. I dig the unity, stolen in early morning solitude, not so much intersecting as parallel travels, but an illusion of intellect tossed around together --- and I miss it when it goes away.

Can an Atheist Get Sober?

After the most grievous, fruitful season of my young life, I'm sorting through the lessons. Through my limited scope, I'm discovering a fraction of what it feels like to love, and to be powerless. If God's inexhaustible Love for us feels anything like this for its Source, I'm happy to remain a fleck on the windshield of life.

Part of this summer's journey has meant a return to the 12-step meetings that saved my life fifteen years ago. I selfishly gained the gifts of sobriety (becoming employable, a husband and family, a busy life) and left my duties to still-suffering drunks behind. I also left behind the spiritual growth that propels us, one day at a time, in recovery. Although I didn't pick up a drink or a drug in the six years that I stayed away from meetings, I retreated into my faith. This isn't a fact I'm overly maudlin about, but it is a fact. We either 'grow spiritually or die', is a recognized truth for addicts. I've moved through the deep shame and regret of leaving this first facet of good living behind --- that progress being due to the unfailing welcome of beautiful strangers who now inhabit my heart and my home. Thank God they were still there when I put my hand to the doorknob. The worn carpet, bad coffee and tattered slogans on the wall spoke in sacred, silent tones. May I never forget where I came from.

In a flash, I was relieved of my embarrassment at the realization that I'd concocted two different Gods: one for alcoholism and one for Christian living. I had a merciful God and a legalistic God. To reconcile the two was not the kind of protracted analytical exercise I first expected; rather, God returned wholly to me the same way He first appeared --- in my utter surrender. We know the expression 'there are no atheists in a foxhole', hinting at the simplicity and willingness of the human soul to cry out for divine aid when all other hope is lost.

The Twelve Steps are undeniably rooted in Christianity, even mirroring Ignatian and Benedictine spirituality so closely that Bill Wilson (their author) was once asked by a priest if the rumor was true --"had the Steps in fact been written by a Jesuit seminarian?" These roots are not restrictive, however, and the program is presented in the most unobtrustive way. Any seeker of God is free to their conception of a Higher Power, and this is no doubt a wellspring of their efficacy. The fruits of Christian love and service abound, free from moral authority or hierarchy. We exist in concert with recovery from profound, intimate trauma, and humans of every possible stripe are well-represented in our numbers. We are bikers and doctors, mommies and felons, sometimes all in one person. It's this variety of experience plus the purity of our mission, that gives us the ability to reach one another. And here I come to the question first posed --- can someone who denies the existence of God make use of the 12 Steps? YES. A thousand times yes.

Picture a symphony. If you have any experience with a musical instrument this will be easy.  I played the clarinet gleefully and with mediocrity as a teenager, never reaching first or second chair but learning rapidly and deeply enjoying the experience. And we had a conductor who was one in a million. This conductor exists and is leading the show whether I acknowledge him or not --- a 'higher' power, if you will. I can reasonably get by and gain new techniques by copying the person sitting next to me. I never even have to look at the Conductor unless and until I'm willing to find that specific direction. What's vital is only that I discard my way, my self-will, and my ideas about how it should go. Humility, that elusive condition, is essential. I can copy the technical skill of another player, I can merely pretend to play ('fake it 'till you make it'), I can dither between numbers and let others carry the weight. I don't even need to be copying a player of the same instrument; I may play the clarinet but be enamored with the bassoon. It doesn't matter. All have varying results but all are different than hiding in the gutter or the catwalk --- if I'll come in, sit down, assume some postures, and allow for a new way of living from the inside out, I have a chance.

Taken as a straight parallel, any souse has already done this. In active addiction, many of us eventually exit polite society, learning a new vocabulary, new cultural norms, and a host of frightening new "skills" as we descend into hell. We trust in all kinds of unseen forces, for better or worse, to carry us through to the next fix. This mimicry of addicted life is much like the map out of the morass and into healthy and whole life --- just copy the people who have what you want.

The principles of getting well after a period of degradation so bleak that we find ourselves beyond human aid are universal and personal. It works to replace 'atheist' with the spiritually arrogant (hi!), the proud, the lazy and the skeptic: we lay aside our old ideas in exchange for a new way of living. This is simple yet difficult. If it were easy, Skid Row would be empty. As usual, this painful, privileged sojourn is best summarized in the perfect locution of wounded healers, reaching for their own:

bring your ass and your heart will follow.

I Have Too Many Kids

I have too many kids to buy perky cylinders of just about anything. If our family goes on a jag of enjoying certain treats, it's time to consult kitchen-savvy friends, drag out the five-gallon buckets, and start hustling ingredients. Once in awhile I get rebellious, standing bleary-eyed in the grocery near midnight, and just toss that slim dose of French jam into my basket with optimism. "Maybe I'll hide it," I think to myself. This time will be different. More refined.

A week goes by and I'm shaking my head at my silly use of seven dollars. Not because the blueberry preserves were practically chugged straight from the jar by nude, bellowing toddlers --- but because of my own short-sightedness. My fixation on this image of a delicacy, and its prudent dispensation, having some power over my mood. Ain't nobody got time for that. As R.R. Reno observes, "we must be careful of living our theories rather than our lives", a line from this bright yellow volume that recently had me fist-pumping in the midnight sun.

I find myself conditioned to desire the fruits of shiny marketing in place of substance. And I just turned 35, so I'm supposed to know better. Be seasoned and practical in my decision-making, no? Plus I dread passing on such a superficial angst to my daughters. "Enjoy Your Toast. Don't Overthink The Jam." --- maybe put that on my grave.

This revelation goes for so many other jumbo-sized tub o' products, from the hair salon to the car dealers' lot itself. We who claim the quiver's arrow more than twice are banished from the line of polite cars with a simple front seat and back seat. Not for us! The motorcar's features turn from gleaming lifestyle imprimaturs like Bluetooth or sunroofs to purely utilitarian gain: "Washable floor mats? Pish posh. How about a 100% rubber floor in your fifteen-passenger van? Get a power washer and hose this bad boy down." Our cars are so big they have aisles. More to the point, I contend there's nothing quite as cool as barreling down the highway in a motorcade rivaling a presidential lineup, with m'bes'grlfrenz at the helm of every rig. We will mess you up.

I suddenly have too many kids to last very long in public playgrounds, where parents micro-organize every tot within striking distance. Let them play. Visit with your adult friends.

I have too many kids to hitch my calendar to most of the lovely organizations that I'm drawn to. Whether it's ballet for one or a concert for many of us, I'm still learning to consider the "rest of the family" and their limitations when discerning our schedule. For real.

I finally have too many kids to move around spontaneously or hang out at the bus station in Mexico City in lieu of pre-natal care. "...Bloom where you're planted" is the most wretched, promising and elusive of clichés for someone like me. We soldier on.

Perhaps a more astute soul can figure this stuff out with the prescribed 1.7 American children in their midst, but I've always been a late bloomer. As the story often goes, there was more to be revealed.

We have too many children to view our parenting impact as sacrosanct. God imbues each person with a dignity their own. By His grace, our children may live to see decades of opportunity. They could spend much of their adult lives around people we'll never meet. Our time with them is truly just a season, and they are not ours to contain.

We have too many children to believe we can craft them in our image. Should their character be revealed in ways that stir our tears, whether of pride or despair, we know it's their character being forged. Not ours. The journey is theirs. We can shepherd them, and their formation is our duty --- but having 4 or 5 different personalities blossoming together goes a long way to expose the futility of control over another's destiny.

We have too many children to spend time driving all over tarnation for things we can reasonably (re)produce at home. This applies to meals, much of modern entertainment, and certain forms of fellowship. Heroic exceptions are made for exposure to arts and letters, tacky parades, and church stuff.

We have too many children to revel much in professional goals, whether realized or still being pursued. Kids want to feed the ducks and ride bikes and chase pigs. They want to go swimming and pick up hitchhikers and count the stars. They want truth. My husband will never ask for his (numerous) (just bragging) service plaques and production awards at his deathbed. We hope only to join their struggles and achievements in a sane and sober way --- not eclipse their young lives with misplaced ambition and easy accolades. Kids know.

We have too many children to believe in fake activism. Seriously. Let's take a risk and love someone. May God pierce our crazy, selfish egos with His peace.

We have too many children to believe that "born healthy" is the ultimate gift. Life hurts. We cry out loud and drive in circles with death metal blaring, yelling at God. And He's there.

We have too many children to labor under the illusion that sex is meaningless. It makes new people, and those people deserve a family. The heaving, aching, fussing mound of issues and persnicketies that all families are, at times, but a family. With seven years of infertility at the front half of our marriage, Anthony and I are acutely aware of the life-giving power of sex, gone inexplicably dormant. Babies aren't merely a milestone, or a delay of real milestones, they're whole new people. Life is never diminished by the addition of a baby.

We have too many children to be scared (for long) by the notion of another pregnancy. They're our only lasting gift to each other and to their siblings.

A Life Without Sin

When I met my husband, he posed this question very early: "What is Satan's greatest lie?" (To certain girls, it doesn't get much more romantic than that. I know. I was eighteen. You hush.)  That the answer --- "Satan's greatest lie is that he doesn't exist" --- came from Anthony, not French poetry or even a Kevin Spacey movie, was the beginning of my fascination with and attraction to him. My husband seems like a bombastic personality to many people, but how quickly he deflects my swooning over these moments now. ("Honey, I probably got it from a movie. I was just trying to sound deep.")

We were married one year later. We lived together for the entirety of our engagement. The doors of Christ were thrown widely open for us, sinners seeking an anchor without much knowing we were drowning. We've needed a life raft more than once in our travels together, including being civilly divorced and remarried, and relapsing on a host of favorite vices, all the while clinging to the virtue of Love itself and our unquenchable thirst. That 'God-shaped hole' I first heard about as a teenager, and visited in adulthood by finding the heartfelt vocabulary of Saint Augustine, has never left us. We are grateful.

And yes, we immediately began having sex when we met ---- that's how people express an interest in getting to know each other, in the world we came from. I don't make these admissions out of pride or even shame --- just an attempt to be clear about my moral formation. I also mean to draw a larger conclusion about the arrogance of chronic sin, and how it blinds us to our own brokenness. This is well-illustrated by a Western priest's report on the number of people standing in line for confession vs. those in line for communion on Sunday, comparing the ratio now to that of forty years ago. Hint: one is shrinking while the other is growing. I described this to my husband and he replied sardonically, "See, it's working, Father! People are living lives without sin." Our sadness isn't smugness.


If you didn't know grandstanding has found new heights
via cartoon imagery, you should check out social media!

No Guts, No Glory
In the wearying discussions about same-sex 'marriage', both online and offline, the conclusion is clear. Either align yourself publicly with the crushing tide of nihilism, or prepare to opt out of cultured society. The prevailing argument ("Don't H8! ForniK8!") has revealed a dirth of contemporary authority so vast, I find myself shocked.

I don't hold a shred of ill will towards people who have gay sex, but I'm also not that impressed by it. Christians know the ground to be level at the foot of the Cross. Letting sexual sin be defined as sexual sin is enough for us --- please work it out privately. For reaching this unglamorous conclusion, we're termed "nothing but hateful, ignorant bigots". Ignoring the effects of overturning the expressed will of voters, or the implications of further eroding states' rights, these simplistic dismissals are met by applause in the name of tolerance. Short-sighted, heartless and frankly moronic comparisons to interracial marriage are made.

Dialogue either stops or turns lukewarm when a person announces they have a gay relative. I remember when my affection for the gay people in our life was enough to satisfy my hope that I was making the right decision by saying nothing on this subject. I considered hearing no resistance as evidence that I was on the winning 'side'. Is there a notion that our individual lives and peers are sufficient for the wisdom we need? Must I seek a deposit of faith and wisdom from anywhere broader than my family reunion or the university? What a plebeian bore I am, then. I'm watching a parade of souls begging to be redeemed by United States Supreme Court Justices. When we refuse to conform our hearts to the authority of Christ, isn't it curious that we'll force conformity on the people around us? We long so deeply for approval, all the while yelling about rebelling against the patriarchy.

I know some really nice drug dealers --- hardworking men who donate to charities and support their families. Should that remove any objections I have to the trade? Moreover, does it free me from the responsibility to think? God's greatest earthly gift is our sense of reason --- we must employ it fearlessly if we believe the state of our souls depends on accepting His ultimate gift of salvation.

So why can't I just 'shut up'?
My duty to my Creator includes sharing what He has done for me. God's truth sets us free from a host of suicidal tendencies, most of which fall under the umbrella of selfishness dressed up as license. (My rights!) My friends have written more personally. In the short time I've been maintaining this glorified Pinterest page I call a blog, I've felt called to write on topics outside of polite conversation, mostly because those are the topics I think about and find most relevant.

It's not about me, or some climactic reveal when it comes to my views. Nobody cares or is surprised, on the whole. I'm sad to be called a bigot, but eager to form my witness in a way that welcomes private dialogue with my "Questioning" friends. (Let's use the word for questioning politically correct trends, not methods of getting off sexually. Only one of these requires secrecy in our society.)

My alternative is silence, or a sort of counterfeit truce. Notice this truce requires silence only from those who uphold a heterosexual ideal for marriage. I'd rather have honest and respectful conversations than pretend. 

The Catholic Church is the sole purveyor of a consistent pro-life ethic, and her teachings on abortion, the death penalty, euthanasia, birth control, and sexuality don't deviate a whit. Yet our silence, confusion and disobedience has contributed massively to the desecration of marriage. Possessing the truth isn't enough, we have to share in an honest and love-affirming way. We can ask those whose faith we admire to help us in discussing this freely. If it's all so noble, why the insistence on euphemisms?

We rightly want to be affiliated with noble causes, and when a Facebook friend tosses out a vague cliché about injustice or civil rights, the temptation to join in can be strong. This is where silence is better than a forgery. Not everyone is an activist. Ask questions in real time and in real life of people whose spirituality you admire. Listen for authentic love. Be careful of who you consult. Nothing sends me running in the opposite direction faster than attempts at faux sisterhood, and life is filled with sources of bad theology dispensed by people with Good Hair. I'll take my moral waxing from someone who wouldn't think of waxing anywhere else, if you don't mind. I'm not making attention to fashion trends a litmus test which must be failed in order to have intellectual credibility, but --- oh wait, yes I am. Great thinkers necessarily seem to opt out of the parade of vanity. People who neglect hygiene in order to socialize (or not) are often fantastic. The day my eyebrows are finally just growing in concentric circles, you'll know I've reached scholastic nirvana.

The bare truth is, marriage was redefined fifty years ago with the introduction of no-fault divorce and artificial contraception. This is detail. Gird your loins: if sex is merely the joining of two people (without the possibility of creating a third), then so is marriage. The unexamined life Socrates warned against has won. Ironically, it can't stop preening in front of the mirror.

Controlled Burn, for the Win

Two of my favorite pastimes on this Earth are both events that I've given up trying to capture in photos: fireworks and parades. I vividly remember our oldest daughter's first parade almost eight years ago: on Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday, which we took in from a hot sidewalk near the jazziest pharmacy I've seen, in downtown Las Vegas. (The store's logo is bedazzled in perpetually chasing neon. Even the foam beer cozies on sale within have a holographic sheen.) Occasionally looking through family scrapbooks, these are pictures of silent strangers, reducing the extended sensory pleasure to a flat, two-dimensional memento. All photographs necessarily compress our memories, but this desire to capture the momentous and celebratory rings especially hollow when it fails so starkly. My images of the teenaged drill team members are blurry, the fire trucks are muted and dull without their attendant sound effects, and the only photo I treasure among the forty or so taken is of baby Vivian's profile, ensconced in a rainbow feather boa. I've read tip sheets from professional parade photographers, shown up early in order to get a good angle, and shot with perspective in mind. I've turned the pictures black and white. It doesn't work.

In this way, the process unfolding before us, and the resulting sensation within us, are the attraction. We'd do better to acknowledge its fleeting nature and value it accordingly. Wanting to possess, contain and control it --- even for the sake of art and posterity --- reveals an underdeveloped sensual nature and fear of vulnerability.

Just like premarital sex and the San Diego fireworks mishap. Stay with me. All of the anticipation and physical pizzazz was there, but released in a brilliant and fizzling burst. The brilliance and the fizzle are so thoroughly enmeshed, it almost equals security. No wondering if each combustion is the finale, no time to worry about this experience being one of consequence or mutual value. In fact, in the sexual sense, the utter lack of trust between two parties becomes its own reductionist bond: we are simply animals.

I had another photo-based catharsis after effectively missing an epic fireworks show in Singapore, because I was distracted by the task of capturing it. Picking up my little camera, then putting it away and trying to re-focus and drink in the revelry, only to grab it again at hopefully the right millisecond. (Incidentally, who is interested in amateur photos of fireworks? Not even my best shots stir anything in me, years later.)

This, kids, is courtship:  a burst of light flashes and recedes before we realize its strength. Was that eye contact? Others build, with crescendoes that physically rock us: we held hands! I asked him his last name! I like his last name! The staccato sadness of an unreturned phone call is where the depth of feelings can get scary, and thereby meaningful. Likewise, the dark spaces between fireworks contain much of the show's dignity and power.

It strengthens us to exist, in the early stages of love, between high marks, with breath held and hopes pinned --- my fate resting in the Conductor's baton. Please God, let this be authentic. The accents of courtship are made meaningful because of their rarity. He kissed me!

We are not built to sustain the razzle dazzle. The ferocity and uncertainty of human love has a place so precious within us that to hold the note cheapens the tune considerably. Take the near-constant barrage of text messages which I presume to be a part of many adolescent and perhaps even adult dating rituals. The poignancy of contact is all but gone, with a need for increasing stimulation dooming us to cynicism. What, as the radio anchor posited this morning when reporting on the half million spectators assembled for the 4th of July in San Diego, was left to do "for the remaining nineteen and a half minutes?"

We are wired to experience ever-new dimensions of trust, disillusionment and thrill. It will not break us. The courage to see what's around the corner is the essence of life. Nothing is to be gained by treating virginity as a simple milestone to be overcome. Sexual life has an eternal weight that we can't diminish, regardless of our opinions on the veracity of natural law. Breaking a window and running away might change our view, but the universe, including our space in it, has been impacted.

And for every girl like me who tossed it away, may the right soul stick around and dedicate his life to your private jubilee.

I tried to call my senator, but I guess she was in the cafeteria...

Well, true colors don't fade for long. Lisa Murkowski, one of Alaska's two senators, seemed capable of grasping the implications of the Blunt Admendment five days ago when she enjoyed local press coverage of her vote in support of it. One call from the intrepid Julia O'Malley, and the good Senator is now rife with regret.

Her explanation is best summarized with a direct quote.

      " I don't adhere to all of the tenets of my faith. I'm a Republican, I don't adhere to all of the principles that  come out of my party.  I'm also not hesitant to question when I think that my church, my religion, is not current. "
 

Such dismissive pride shows her fidelity for what it is: nonexistent. Three sentences, wherein she uses "I" and "my" nine times, as if these entities actually exist in relation to her ego. That she would draw a parallel between her sacred faith and a political party is evidence of a confused mind. Additionally, she seems to view both as inconvenient behemoths concerned with bossing her around.

To question a teaching or a party platform is often the beginning of deeper knowledge, but Lisa Murkowski makes it clear that she doesn't approach her faith this way. Her (in)consistent actions aren't questioning, but flatly rejecting these tenets, and far more grave --- offering public scandal by driving policy in opposition to it. She's instructing us, the wayward dullards who cling to Rome, Peter, and the Cross, or anyone who might be led astray by such teachings. To whom does Lisa Murkowski finally defer, the comment section of the Huffington Post?

This is not to claim superiority for Catholics in public life. In fact, a secular government leaves no need to dissect or even highlight a politican's religion. But it's in the personal connections that votes are largely won, and our Senator is abandoning ship left and right, in hope of a better gig somewhere on the horizon. That should would betray her own vote doesn't surprise me anymore, but the glib and shallow nature she's displaying disappoints me. To struggle, to question, these are often laudable paths to wisdom. What a voice she could have, if only she had the attention span and courage to find and use it.

Knowing she considers herself a Catholic, it'd be interesting to hear how she defines that since freeing herself of the Catechism and scripture. (As I said, I left her an inquiring message this morning. So far, crickets.) We strive for holiness, and we do so with obedience to the Church's loving authority. It's quite a trip. We insist on pursuing goodness, and we examine vice and virtue with humility and reason as our guides. We love life. We are colossally flawed, but called to mirror the Saints who brushed back fear and claimed victory in their lot. Where we see Goliath, David saw God.

Murkowski, however, has a job to protect. And an East Coast home to preserve (word is that she had begun a remodel of her DC digs before being tossed from the Republican ballot on 2010, only to bump Joe Miller with her write-in campaign. A campaign she mounted after giving her word not to challenge the expressed will of the primary voters).

Catholics have a term to capture this mindset: Cafeteria Catholicism, where one slides their tray along the happy road of human existence, scrunching their nose and waving off troublesome beets or dry mashed potatoes --- any fare which doesn't tickle the trendy palate. I've shared mass with Senator Murkowski, and my frustration with her arrogance and willful disobedience has been replaced by a desire to pray for her. I confront myself too, in prayer, that I will not mirror such a terrible example.

And if urban dictionary is your thing --- Alaskans are increasingly using one word which fits Frank's belle like a glove: Murky.

Pimp My (Free) Ride

Secular shoulders are being shrugged around America just as rapidly as documents of resistance are being penned by our bishops and congressional leaders. The suggestion that contraception coverage will be mandated to include Catholic institutions has put a finer point on the paradigm, but the American taxpayer has long subsidized many unhealthy rites of passage that are now commonplace.

Sacred, life-giving milestones in the Catholic faith are called Sacraments, outward signs instituted by Christ which point to inward reception of God's grace. Reciprocally, secular society has milestones to which many people feel great loyalty and expect unfettered access. Certain restrictions exist to protect public money from funding violations of human dignity still viewed as illicit, but many of them are practically de riguer in adult life.

Let's be intellectually honest and recognize the tenets of the American Left as the framework of a nihilistic faith tradition. Through this lens it becomes clear that our federal government, which must remain secular in order for our republic to survive, has its disciples well-trained by age eighteen and expecting no less than utter redemption through good service.

It's worth mentioning that many Christians suffer the delusion that elements of their lifestyle should be on the dole, and plenty of hardcore liberals live self-sufficiently off the grid. American people are not a one-size fits all populace, which is precisely why we must unite to confront this overreach --- to restore personal liberty. The MTV generation occupies the vast middle, and we risk too much by continuing to feed their superficial accessories and unexamined pursuits with the hard-earned income of good men like my husband.

Pastimes, medical care and education are personal decisions with complex factors, and criticism of neither is my goal. Clarity is my goal. Catholics have been carrying on for milennia without need or desire of our sacramental lives being funded by anyone but ourselves; we wouldn't consider it. And we give.

Nanny-state tyranny, however, demands ever-increasing public dollars for the narrow agenda of its lobbyists and death merchants. Here are the broad strokes of such an egregious presumption, contrasted against the Sacraments of Initiation, Healing and Communion.





Can Two Boys Be Married?

At fifteen years old I had to run away from home. I just needed a ride. I stood, defiant of the oppression and ready for sojourn, in our lush, sloping front lawn --- balancing a lit cigarette, a backpack and a cat. I must have summoned my friend Jamie Lynn by using our home phone, since even drug dealers and surgeons had only pagers then. No clandestine cell phone calls or silent texting was available to me --- such an escape had to be planned from the inside.

As I recall, Jamie arrived in quick order, parking her little hatchback and crossing the street to help with my self-professed emergency. I recited the litany of injustice that had driven me to this moment, calming as I awaited her aid. It came, but in a horrifying form. "So....you're running away from your family because you have chores, Tiffany Rose? That's silly. You can't come to my house. I mean, do whatever you want, but I don't have anywhere to take you."

Calling her had been a total mistake.

It sounds overblown and obvious now, but isn't that adolescence for you? I had some job to do, likely unglamorous but necessary like washing the windows or folding laundry. Diversion and melodrama being my currency, I spun this wild tapestry of victimization instead of just doing my work. I also pleaded for the confirmation that my actions were brave and smart, and I wanted it from the girl who was arguably my most virtuous friend. Her maturity and resignation to the facts were an exception among my confidantes; the rest of us being loyal not so much to one another, but to any opposition we perceived as threatening our freedom. (Vacuuming the living room, for instance.)

My friend was pastoral, practical, and I still find it valuable to reflect on the 'why' of her behavior that summer day. She wasn't spoiling for a fight or trying to win my allegiance. She was offering a true brand of friendship, to be prized highly over "confederacies in vice, or leagues of pleasure", as English essayist Joseph Addison called its lower, more counterfit forms. Her words carried no punishment, and because of her critical candor over the years, I've learned to trust her encouragement as being equally sincere.

We too often run away from truth and its gentle invitation, into the welcoming echo chamber of other liars. I don't remember how this short-lived adventure ended, though it's doubtful I went inside and did my chores. There was one voice giving mournful clarity to my woes, mirroring the quiet authority of my father. I could find louder and more exciting sources to validate my refusal of duty.

Such is the case against homosexual "marriage" and the hip chorus who clamors for it.  An often overlooked facet of Catholic teaching on such matters is that it is never the arbitrary decisions of men; it is rather a revelatory exercise which distills God's wisdom and love. There are the pastoral, the practical and the "nitty gritty" reasons why a same-sex union is in fact, false. The faith I profess has unlocked this epic agony, and it begins with a right understanding of sex.

It also ends there, for many. If we are not carefully instructed in virtue, there is little defense against the default catechesis around us. (If it feels good, do it. Lots. With a camera, once the novelty wears off.) I've watched enough primetime television in this decade to witness a marked uptick in the presentation of urbane, gay male lawyers as the sole champion of truth and integrity among their family and peers. This is significant not because it's unlikely in any given case --- hey, lawyers have been known to be honest ---  but because it grants inviolate status based on something as variable as human sexuality.

Suspending your opinion on so-called social issues, observe that a husband/wife/children situation is now the arena of carnival sideshows, peeked at through documentary-style TV shows about fruitful family life. (Yes, I'm talking about the Duggars. I have seen one episode. Her ice cream sandwich-cake impressed me.) Of course it's out of the ordinary for a family to grow quite so rapidly as the Duggars, and I suppose that allows for a viewing base. But ... is the daily lifestyle of a gay man given the same wide-eyed curiosity? Why not? Surely family life is just as diverse as any individual's, so to call this question promotion of a stereotype doesn't work. By its very definition, the core of the curiosity over the Duggar family is a curiosity about sexual activity and its effects.

We have normalized, sanitized and nearly canonized a behavior built of carnal sexual urges, all with a notable absence of the same meritless goodwill being extended towards a 'traditional' family. I dread being considered a bigot, but I refuse to be bullied into presumption of anyone's virtues based solely on their favorite vice(s). Content of character, anyone?

Pastoral
The Church does not dismiss same-sex attraction as contrived or even sinful as a condition, but neither will She elevate it to the charism the modern media and aggressively secular culture has ascribed to it.

A person is comprised of will, intellect, body and soul. We act either in harmony or violation of each faculty with almost every motion or thought. If we are not Saints, it's because that has not mattered most of all to us in our lives, as a precious friend reminded me just yesterday. Sure, not everyone is Catholic, or even hopes for Heaven, but I maintain that objective truth doesn't change because of our rebellion. (Wash the dishes, Tiffany Rose.)

We are created with this truth in mind, and we have a job to do. Those of us who understand earthly death as a beginning will describe this job with 'the end' in mind. Anyone else can agree that all people have specific talents, which cause them varying degrees of restlessness if unfulfilled. This is the essence of Satanic victory: lives of despair and self-loathing.

Practical
Recreational sex is not our job on earth. Pursuit of sex is not an identity. The methods an adult uses to accomplish an orgasm should be no more a topic of public discussion than any other private decision. That's not Puritanical, oppressed or small-minded. It's called manners.

Our frightful lack of a collective spine has allowed this debate to reach such a fevered pitch that we are now measuring 'equality' assigned by group affiliation. In the United States of America, rights are endowed to the individual. There are no 'group' rights.

The threat posed to a group is indeed real, but that threat is to any group who will not endorse and evangelize the homosexual cause. The Catholic Church would not forcibly seek to stop anyone from living a blatantly homosexual life; we simply can't say it's healthy, to the students and patients entrusted to our schools and hospitals. That's it. The crux of the stalemate resembles my own teenaged fit too well --- do whatever you want, but don't ask us for a ride. Again shines the American way --- we have the right to be wrong, in the world's estimation. Let us drive our private institutions into the metaphorical ground of our own volition. In such foundational matters of liberty, unanimity isn't useful or necessary. It is sufficient that we believe it.

Nitty Gritty
The natural order of sexuality having two aspects, unitive and procreative, is enough to show the disordered fact of same sex attraction. Since we hold that marriage must be open to both the unitive and procreative functions, the joining of two men or two women simply isn't a marriage. Even if we beg, demand and legislate it so.

I was raised by Good Hippies, who deserve all of my honor and gratitude for their insistence that we cherish the harmony created by differences. One of my parents' dearest friends was lost very early to the AIDS pandemic, and my mother still mentions how often and deeply she misses him. It's my hope that my young family will know of his humor and kindness. My elementary school education was, I realize in hindsight, at the competent hand of some memorable lesbians. Not because of their sex lives, nor in spite of them, but irrespective to such intimacies --- I'd drop off my kids to them today, were the same education available. An honorary uncle to our children has lived with HIV for nearly thirty years. We have all suffered the shock of suicide in young people who undertake a path which becomes unbearable. I reject any caricature of their lives. These are not tokens to me, these are people who took me as seriously and treated me as lovingly as I do them, even in memory. They're my brothers and sisters. 

For many years I could muster only tacit assent on this Church teaching, due to an immature understanding of it. My questions were answered by charitable hearts who took the time to share their experience, strength and hope. Here is just one of them. If you struggle against yourself in this area, let no one write your life's script for you. You are much more than your desires of the flesh. We have a job to fulfill with the gift of our lives, which can be recognized by threads of God's creative force, not the destructive roles many would cast for us.  The triumph of chastity is for every person, married or single, and worth exploration.

As with all of God's gifts, our effort is mostly one of becoming willing to receive it. And worth emphasizing perhaps above all else: it's never too late for grace through repentance. No shame can eclipse God's love, unless we stay in the shadows and insist on calling it a sunrise.

If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out

After almost two weeks as a blogger, it's high time for some wild generalizations and sweeping conclusions about this experience from yours truly, no?

First -- as predicted, my debut and the ensuing shock waves have apparently shut down Wikipedia. Weird.*

Speaking of the mighty wiki, let's start there. Think of Wikipedia as the town square, layered with a feast of fliers on every Dickensian lamppost. Its senior contributors keep a tidy aesthetic and I generally trust them on matters of democratic access to information.

As for the motley crew of websites that allow much of this information to flow so freely, let's be clear. Facebook is the detention hall, or your living room, or the lounge at the Senior Center, depending on your demographic. We're passing around artful doodles of this and that, with all the productivity of an episode of Wheel of Fortune. We're quite literally spinning our wheels. I know that some people can visit Facebook without clinical side effects, I just don't know if I'll ever be one of them.

The Facebook News Feed has become like our customized morning newspaper, and maybe tweets are a broader form of email, like the braggart descendant of IM. Or (for the Lutherans, not to mention the Luddites), Twitter is for nailing missives to the doors of your neighbors, be they friend or foe. Like the boy in the tweed cap selling newspapers, breathless as he paces the square, offering insistent headlines. And hey, news flash, I have totally been putting stuff on Facebook that belonged on Twitter! That's where you put links to articles. It's just the rules, evidently. We're passing notes (back to the detention metaphor) with our tweets, where Facebook is more like decorating the walls in the hallway. Ah, the Facebook ...Wall. I daresay M. Zuckerberg and I would not have been friends in school.

Pinterest, as far as I can tell, allows us to peek in everyone else's windows and spy on them. Or sift through their storage units.

As these distinctions in egalitarian media are becoming more accepted, it brings me to the idea of a blog. I wrote my first in 2001, and it was a labor of love. Love, of course, was spelled h, t, m, l and my page's theme was sparkly red Hello Kitty. (I know, I'm a badass.)

This was before FAQs were expressed as such, and blogs were still called weblogs, as if some vital data was being logged. Doesn't it sound like part of a nautical chart? The term was soon handily shortened to 'blog. I begrudgingly gave up that apostrophe, and the term weblog, once I realized it sounded like the equivalent of offering to send you a facsimile, using the facsimile machine. My blog was an offshoot of a Yahoo! account, and I extracted the codes from their tutorial, copying instructions from my laptop onto fathoms of Post-It notes. It took me about a week to put up exactly four pictures of our move from Alaska to Nevada. I built a few more scrapbook-ish pages and let it go at that.

It's been fascinating to read the blogs of people I know, over the years. Their design choices display personality in a way that's slightly more organic than Facebook or MySpace templates. I celebrate the moment we all had a slot on these centralized sites as a net gain since it includes many more people than blogging ever will. But all our pages look the same. I digress.

My point is one of decision, mindfulness --- I don't want to be shouting in your living room. If the Facebook News Feed has become the morning newspaper, then its full-page ads are boring me. Mine included. Maybe a blog can be a more settled space to opine. I'm no longer standing in the street, wringing my hands over rotten tomatoes, but instead resolving to go inside and make you a sandwich. If you tuck the pickles into your napkin and toss them, I'll never know. Take it or leave it, the etiquette of what we're doing online bears examination.

Thanks for the support and networking from so many dedicated  bloggers, Catholic and otherwise. And the readers. There appear to be some readers!

There's a million ways to go, you know that there are.

* Una voce, friends.