On Memorial Day, we often think of black and white pictures of faces from times we’ve only read about. We might consider a newspaper article or item on the nightly news about a soldier who died, though we can’t recall where or when in the next minute. Some citizens have a personal connection to a father or mother, grandfather, uncle or great someone or other whose medal is in someone’s attic.

If we’re conscious enough of the day and our city is, too, we might go to a parade. If we try even harder, we go to a cemetery and listen to a speech, prayer, and song.

The United States Military of today is second to none. They are highly trained professionals. It is more stringent now than in years past. They are the one percent: citizens who choose to defend the country they love, pass the required tests to get in, and demonstrate the resolve, determination, strength, and grit to complete and pass a brutal training process. A surprising number do not make it. Yes, they are the one percent, but their families are ordinary people with an added layer to the usual worries of life.

If you have someone near and dear in the military, Memorial Day goes a little deeper. It is personal. It is close.

At the beginning of your soldier’s training, you belong to groups who help each other through. You learn of plans accomplished or delayed. Someone got their college degree and decided to enlist. Someone has dreamed of this since he was 5. Someone enlisted and told her family afterward, leaving them to adjust quickly and ignore the gut punch. You see question after question about this new life. What does this phrase mean? When does this phase happen? Eyes glaze over from the number of acronyms until you start using them, yourself, as a convenient sort of shorthand. You read many requests asking for prayer for their trainee to pass yet another test. To recover from an injury or sickness. To survive heartbreak. To endure missing important family events: funerals, weddings, graduations, births. To keep going when they’d rather quit. You see many photos of handsome and pretty soldiers and compliment the ones who posted them. You smile at family pictures and can almost hear the exclamations of greeting and laughter and catching up. You cheer every success and graduation.

As time passes,you admire crafts made by hands of someone who is urging their soldier home stitch by stitch, project by project. Maybe you let someone know love is sent their way when they are lonely or worried. You commend every promotion. You read questions about locations of military bases. What are they like? How dangerous is it? You are privy to close calls and near misses. You hear about news of deployment and visceral sickness and worry so heavy it makes it hard to do ordinary things that need doing. Pride and fear become inextricably linked, and heaven is inundated with desperate prayers from all corners of the country at all hours.

And often on those support pages you see the picture of someone’s son or daughter or husband or wife and read that they were killed yesterday. They were killed in a live fire training exercise. They were killed in a roll-over tactical vehicle accident. They were killed in Afghanistan or Iraq or someplace whose name we know, with a few facts we can repeat, but not much else. You recognize a name. A face. And there it is.

Because Memorial Day is so much more than a parade or speech or photo. It is a person you knew. A person whose mother you talked with and whose visits home you celebrated. This soldier is a member of those admired by good people, but personally known by few. And this soldier deserves not just a minute on a day of remembering. He or she merits some time of reflection on his life and dreams, quirky sense of humor, tender letters home, anxious waiting, and desire to do a good thing. This soldier deserves a country’s honor.

Images: Unsplash; National Infantry Museum

When you look at your newborn, tiny and soft, with eyes that hold the trust of the ages and hair as soft as down, you wonder how, in an instant, you can protect this little one. You are a mother. Somewhere your subconscious tells you that new title is yours for life. You cannot get enough of soaking in the sight of the little one in your arms.

And through those first weeks at the smallest sound you go over to where your baby is sleeping to check and make sure all is well. And all the years afterward you continue to “just check” and watch that little one grow and become a mixture of what you hope and what you don’t understand. Your child asks you to look. “Look and see what I can do!” Other times they hope you won’t see what they’ve done. And on through the years, the invisible, inescapable pull set in mothers everywhere by the Creator, Himself, is a contrast of welcome and unwelcome.

This Mother’s Day I think of my own mom and I remember . . .

Our dog was giving birth to a litter of puppies in the corner of our dirt floor garage. I was elementary school-aged. My mom had called a friend so she could bring her kids over and we could all watch the miracle of birth together. We huddled together by the garage door and watched Specky during her most personal moments as she ate the membrane and licked each newborn. I was embarrassed while Mom was enthralled, but we watched because she wanted me to learn.

As I drove home through the dark streets, I could see my house lit up and a shadow in the window watching for me. I’d been out with some high school friends drinking pop and talking and laughing. It was nearly midnight. In her mind I’d been kidnapped and was struggling to escape. In my mind whatever it was I faced from imagined kidnappers held nothing to what I faced from my mother.

I carried out a few suitcases and whatever other few things I had to bring, and stashed them all in a friend’s car. I was leaving for college during a time when my residence had one phone that hung on a hallway wall. There were no emails nor texts, and long distance costs were by the call and by the minute. Kids who went to college didn’t have much contact with their parents other than letters and holidays. As we pulled away, I could see my mom in the rearview mirror. She stood in the driveway and watched us until we were out of sight.

I was in my 30’s fulfilling some duty at the front of the church, probably leading worship or some other such role. My mom had, herself, spent her life doing the same thing, though her fingers always made the piano keys sing more sweetly than mine ever did. What can I say? She had a great touch. There was mom sitting in the pew listening and watching with a slight smile. It’s possible she was thinking what could have been done to make the song sound better. It’s probable she would have been right.

When I was in my 40’s, I look up as I inserted the key into the car, and there she was at the window watching to make sure I’d made it safely from her house to my car. Granted, by now her house was in a part of town that, while not riddled with crime, held the potential for occasional trouble. I don’t know how she planned to fight off my attackers.

We’d gotten a pretty good wallop of snow, wet and heavy and high; the kind that lands folks in the hospital with a heart attack. I was feeling my 50 some years as I shoveled the layers to get to the pavement, and as I trudged, out of breath, back to the house to return the shovel to its usual place, I caught a glimpse of my mom. She’d been standing at the window watching me. Still.

Our puppy has now been with us for nearly one year.* His passion for life is just what our home needs since my husband’s idea of excitement is watching T.V. with a cold Dr. Pepper in his hand and my preference is a cozy mystery. Our action-packed evenings amaze even us.

We have not been back for more training despite my best intentions. The dog grew exponentially which could affect my bone health. To wit: To get to the door of the trainer requires descending some stairs, making a turn, and descending some more. That, or rolling down a steep hill. The thought of my holding the leash as he excitedly pulls me to where the action is gives me chills. Back in the early days, in our effort to be early one evening in order to calmly watch the others arrive, the two of us knocked some chairs – well a whole row of chairs, actually – cattywampus. He was a good 40 lbs lighter then. (And, no, we didn’t really calmly watch the others arrive, in case you’re wondering.) Oh my word. I’m not sure we have adequate insurance for the chaos that could result in just getting down the aforementioned stairs.

We have, however, made some progress on our own. He gives an admirable nose-bump (being without a working fist), can shake hands, and remembers what he first learned: sitting and lying down. He even stays if you don’t expect it to last beyond 30 seconds. He sits by my chair while I’m at the computer (as long as I have some snacks to bribe him with from time to time). He understands quite a few words and expressions, including “something to eat” and “drop it”, although he responds much better to one phrase than the other. He (mostly) comes when he’s called. We did have one little episode in Minneapolis, but it’s better left undiscussed, and my stress at a tolerable level.

His love of tennis balls is without compare. And the chase! If he was an orator I imagine he would expound on the thrill, ending with the words, “It makes my life complete”.

He often accompanies me in the car, the McDonald’s drive-up window staff experiencing his love on a regular basis. And I’ll add here, that never was there, in my experience, a dog more social than this guy. All I have to say is, “Rocky’s outside,” and he bounds for the back door to visit the dog across the fence. I’m not altogether sure the feeling is mutual (Rocky is up in years and might think to himself the yard was more peaceful before an energetic puppy arrived), but some friendships take time, and our dog is in it for the long haul. He’s making in-roads with the tiny little dog kitty-corner to us, two dogs another yard over, and the rest of the walking public (including the high school track team). The expression “never met a stranger” is true of him. And while these days we are becoming doubtful of others’ good intentions, he is not.

His world, the world of dogs everywhere, is God’s way of reminding us to enjoy the small things in life sometimes and to be still at others. So when evening rolls around and he climbs up on the couch next to me, lays his head in my lap, and surreptitiously chews on the edge of my sleeve, I remember, too.

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We Have A Puppy!

Image: Pexels.com

When we want to make a good impression on someone, what’s one of the first things we do? Oh sure, maybe we clean the house if they’re coming over. Some people might even read up on the news of the day in order to be able to converse about current events. And if you’re on a first date, you dress up in something that is attractive. Culturally acceptable. Maybe hides your flaws and enhances your good points.

Hides your flaws. That’s what we do, all of us. Best foot forward and all that. Let’s take a look, not at ourselves (thank heavens! January 8 hasn’t given us enough time on that diet.), but at our country; a country founded on the bedrock of freedom and morals taken from Moses, himself. If I told you the truth and said the Bible some of you would check out, so we’ll just say Moses for now. Everybody likes Charlton Heston. Or did at one time.

Is there anything here and now that we dress up? Are any flaws hidden? So what is the truth these days? Who do we hear it from? Who. Do. We. Listen. To.

Let’s look at a few items that just might be wearing a new outfit to cover up something else. There are a lot of us here in the country who care very much about women. And little children. Just look at the videos on the news about immigrants and you will see how much we care. Or watch women’s marches. Yep. Lots of caring about women.

Here’s a report that you might or might not agree with. Snopes certainly doesn’t, although I can’t imagine why they’re disagreeing with their friends from WHO. Worldometers reports there are 43 million abortions world-wide annually. The World Health Organizaiton puts the figure at 56 million. The United States is party to many of them. According to CNS News, from Oct. 1, 2012 to Sept. 30, 2013, Planned Parenthood performed 327,653 abortions. Over the course of those 365 days (or 8,760 hours), that averages out to 898 abortions per day and 37 abortions per hour.
Let’s count, shall we? 1, 2, 3 – maybe #3 would’ve struggled in school so who cares, right?, 4, 5 . . . want to stop yet? Those are tiny babies we’re talking about. 6 – #6 would have had an absent father and the mother doesn’t have much money, 7 – maybe #7 was going to be a great violinist, 8 – #8 might have had a hard life. Who wants that?, 9 -perhaps #9 would have been one of those nurses who go above and beyond the call of duty, 10. I’m tired, aren’t you? Tired of . . . counting? Abortion is now the largest cause of death in the United States. Not cancer. Not heart attacks. Not guns. Not climate change. Abortion. But don’t tell us we don’t care about women and children.

Side note: The Moabites sacrificed children to their god, Molech. Baal is another god that we usually associate with the Old Testament to whom his adherents made sacrifices. “Baal or Moloch or Chemosh—the name may change, but their bloodthirsty appetite for the most acceptable offering of infants does not. We have ample and melancholy evidence on this subject from the records of antiquity. It was believed that human sacrifice to Baal held the key to prosperity.” And we wonder why God has withheld what could be amazing blessing from our land.

Who did we listen to that told us abortion was a good thing? Who dressed it up?

What else do the voices tell us? Or, perhaps more to the point, don’t tell us? What flaws are the voices hiding? My two cents? I think, my friends, that we do not in the least have a real grip of the child sex trafficking happening even among the rich and powerful. And drugs? Nancy Reagan said, “Just say no”. But we still have a problem. A very, very big problem. Even now something alarming is being revealed: Government corruption and lies. For years. There are oh so many issues I could include, but you’re getting tired of reading and I’m getting tired of writing. If we could stem the tide of some of these issues it would be great, wouldn’t it?

Are the voices telling us the truth about all of it? Are they giving bits and pieces and leaving other things out? Are they misleading? While we’d like to think our choice of information is best, frankly, I don’t know what to think anymore.

What voices are we listening to? I’d like to say God’s, but I’d be fooling myself. Click this link that shows one of those flaws, those big problems, one of those wearing – oh let’s just say new clothes like the Emperor of the old fable – and get back to me.

https://twitter.com/i/status/1080541527166894081

Movie The Ten Commandments directed by Cecil B. Demille, starring Charlton Heston, Released 10/5/1956; https://www.cnsnews.com/news/article/melanie-hunter/planned-parenthood-we-did-327653-abortions-one-year; https://sapphirethroneministries.wordpress.com/tag/baal-or-moloch-or-chemosh-or-santa-claus/ ; Nancy Reagan’s Just Say No campaign during Ronald Reagan’s presidency; “The Emperor’s New Clothes” by Hans Christian Andersen.