Skip to main content

Well, my Lent is off to a terrific start

Remember how I mentioned the other day that Lent usually finds you?  Well, it did.

Tallest Son has a friend - a warm, funny, talented young lady, with a flair for style and a passion for art - who is also quite vocally pro-abortion.  She often posts things on Facebook that support her stance.  It appears that she has a number of friends who share her position on this topic.

Last night - Ash Wednesday - she posted a "hurray, the Senate voted to continue funding for Planned Parenthood, time to party".  Ahem. 

At least one of her friends supported her "party" attitude.  And that made me sad.  And mad.  So, in true can't-shut-my-big-Irish-mouth fashion, and in defense of women everyhwere, I posted:  "It isn't much of a party for the victims of sexual molestation, human trafficking and abuse.  Clearly, Planned Parenthood isn't interested in helping them."

Her reaction was to remove my post, and then send me a message:  "Please stop posting hateful, anti-choice messages." 

With tremendous self-control, (and yeah, I'm probably breaking my arm patting myself on the back) I didn't respond.  But I am now.

Here we go:
Abortion is murder, and is evil.  Social justice begins in the womb.
Capital punishment is evil.  We can protect ourselves from criminals without killing them, and that type of "justice" belongs to God alone.
Marriage is for one man and one woman, primarily because that is the best environment for both the adults involved, but because it is the best environment for children.
I like Sarah Palin (I'm not sure I want her as President, but I would love to live next door to her - she's adorable!)
Public servants who refuse to do their jobs, or do their jobs in a painstakingly slow, who the hell are you to tell me what to do manner make me want to scream.  And punch things.  My inner bitch (which is not buried too deeply to begin with) comes out.
There is right and wrong, and it doesn't matter who you are, what circumstances you find yourself in, how old you are, or what your daddy did to you as a kid.  Right  and truth are absolute.
Hot dogs and oatmeal are evil.  I shudder and gag.  (Yes, I realize these are not social justice issues, but they are a big deal to me.)

I truly don't believe I am hateful.  I know many of you who read this blog on a regular basis don't agree with me.  I hope that I've never been hateful to you in expressing my views, but I'm gonna keep on saying it.  I believe civil discourse is possible, but I'm also willing to take my lumps.

It is Lent, after all.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Trying to "end run" God

If you're a football fan, you know what an end run is. From Merriam-Webster:
a football play in which the ballcarrier attempts to run wide around the end of the line We try to "end run" God a lot. I do. I figure I know better. I've got this - no need to worry the Big Guy about such a trivial thing.

Of course, it never works.

Like the puppy above, when we try and evade the tough obstacle (even though we KNOW we will eventually have to do it), we end up - well, off in the bushes.

But oh! How I wished my way worked. I'd love to take a flying leap and land smoothly and gracefully. People would be in awe, as if watching Simone Biles nail a balance beam routine that no one else would even attempt. I would shyly look down and blush - just lightly - and acknowledge (But humbly! Oh so humbly!) my achievement.

But no: I am the one pulling myself out of the bushes, scratches all over my legs and twigs in my hair. I'd hear that gentle but loving voice of God saying, &quo…

Secret Santa!!

Too old for Santa? I think not.

Yes, there are discussions as to whether we should "lie" to kids and tell them that Santa brings them gifts vs. We can't lie to the kids; it's wrong.

There is also the "Christmas is about Jesus" vs. "But Santa is magical!"

You know, we have so few magical and joyful moments, and less and less as we get older. Santa is fun. And the kids usually figure it out, and no one I know was ever scarred for life for believing that Santa brought them and every child everywhere a toy for Christmas.

It's the magic of looking up at the sky on a clear December night, thinking "I'll wait up to see Santa" and later, as you fell asleep at the window, being in your daddy's arms as he carries you to bed.

It's the magic of putting out cookies and milk (or beer, because Santa does like beer) and maybe some carrots for the reindeer, and then checking in the morning to make sure the food was all consumed.

It's…

Advent Brokenness

It was a lovely May evening, the kind we in Michigan savor like honey. After the brutal cold of winter, flowers blossomed, grass greened, mosquitoes flocked. School was almost done for the year - just the formalities of 8th grade graduation were ahead.

Why not saddle up the horse and go for a ride? Why not, indeed. So my sister and I did. I took Prince out across the road from our house, to romp through the weeds on a path my father mowed for us. The view from horseback on a spring night - well, nearly Heaven.

Until Prince bolted. He spooked. I fell. And my arm broke. Compound fracture.

My dog, a collie, had followed us out. He was not particularly trusting of Prince, as Prince would never allow himself to be herded, and this vexed my collie. My dog, channeling his inner Lassie, ran home without me.

My sister had been in the yard with her boyfriend at the time, Gary, waiting for me to come back. Instead, it was just the dog loping across the road. That didn't seem right, so my si…