Over the months I couldn’t help but notice that one of the men was a little quieter than the others. He seemed to have full acceptance within the group, but he caught my attention because he wasn’t as loud and didn’t laugh quite as much as the rest. I eventually learned his name was Pete. One morning the guys got to talking about how annoying their wives were, and they began throwing around the usual stereotypes that crop up when a group of men, who have been married to the same long-suffering woman for decades, feel the need to express their marital frustrations. However, I noticed that Pete didn’t say a word. He just sat silently staring into his coffee cup. It was at that point I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring like the others. After the joking and complaining about the wives subsided one of the men turned to Pete and gently asked, “How long has Louise been gone now?” Pete looked up with an expression that conveyed both weariness and pain and softly answered, “Three years, last month.” The old men sat silently for a time each contemplating what their days would be like if the woman they had shared a lifetime with was no longer by their side.

As I eventually learned, Pete had been a medic in the Korean War, and the horror he witnessed during that conflict affected him for the rest of his life. He had come home in a different mental state, and his outlook on the world had completely changed. He often disagreed with the other old men who always seemed gung-ho to bomb someone somewhere back into the Stone Age, however, he had witnessed so much death that he could no longer stomach the thought of it. But it was the fact that Pete had lost a son in Vietnam that made the others respect his opinions about peace. His boy had been killed by small arms fire just 6 weeks before his tour of duty was over. Pete and Louise had gone to Washington DC one summer to visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. Like so many others they had found their son’s name and made a tracing of it on a sheet of paper. Pete carried it in his wallet so that he was never without it…But there were also good things in his life. I found out Pete had two beautiful daughters who meant the world to him, and he loved to show off photos of his great-grandchildren. He didn’t travel to see them as much now that Louise was gone, but they still kept in touch and came to visit him whenever possible.

Over the next year or so I slowly learned that after returning home from the army Pete briefly considered using his medical training for some type of civilian work, but his nerves were frayed, and he knew he couldn’t handle anymore human suffering. Instead he took a job at a local manufacturing plant that produced tires for cars and trucks. He spent 46 years at the plant working his way up to management. When he retired, a small party was thrown for him and he was given a few simple gifts and a pat on the back for giving four decades of his life to the company. It was a few months after his retirement when Pete stumbled onto the group of men drinking coffee each morning at the restaurant near his home. Like him, many had been told their services were no longer needed, and they too had been cast aside after it was determined their ongoing usefulness to a particular organization was in doubt. Pete had felt lost without a job to go to each day, but now he discovered he wasn’t alone. It didn’t take long for Pete to become one of the regulars.

Over the next couple of years I had breakfast almost every Saturday morning at the restaurant while I listened to the old timers talk longingly about how things used to be. But my attention was always drawn to Pete. In the beginning I thought he was just another old man, the kind of person you see every day without giving a thought to, but the more I learned about him the more interesting he became. It was an odd thing because it seemed like I knew him fairly well and yet we never spoke. We had seen each other so often that each of us would nod when the other came into the building but that was it – just a quiet acknowledgement of the other’s existence – nothing more.

Finally one Saturday morning I came into the restaurant and noticed the old men sitting quietly. As I ate, I kept wondering when Pete would arrive but soon enough I understood that he was never again going to be part of the group. As I listened to the brief snatches of conversation the picture became clear. Pete had suffered a massive stroke earlier in the week. One of the men had spoken to Pete’s oldest daughter, and she had told him that the doctors said that her father would never recover. It was apparently now just a matter of time until he passed. Several of the men blustered about how they would never want to be kept alive in that condition, but it seemed that no one really had the heart to express their opinion on the pros and cons of extending life. The group soon fell silent as they sipped their coffee lost in their own thoughts.

It was a strange feeling that came over me when I realized I would never see Pete again. I wasn’t sure why I felt so sad. I didn’t even know his last name. But for some reason Pete remained in my thoughts over the next few months. I would think about him when I saw other elderly men. I would wonder if he was still alive, if he could recognize the face of a grandchild. About 6 months later the restaurant was closed and eventually it was torn down, but it had served its purpose. It had been a place of community for a group of men who had lived long hard lives, who had been patriotic with more than just words but also with deeds. These were men who had raised families and did their best to make the world a safe and prosperous place for their children. These were men who were now being passed by as younger generations ignored them and the sacrifices they had made.

I’m sure some of the old men scattered to new places to drink and solve the latest world crisis, while others just stayed home. But for a time they had shared their hopes, dreams and experiences. They had connected in a way that younger people do not. Their shared history of life created a bond that was difficult for someone of a different age to understand. Although their appreciation and sympathy for each other went unspoken, it was clearly understood. Each man valued the worth of the other because they were equals. They were survivors.

Pete had led an anonymous life. How many others were like me and had never bothered to learn his last name? But it would the worst kind of disrespect to say it was not a life of consequence. He had been married to someone he obviously loved deeply. He had brought three children into the world and he had been blessed with grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He had fought for the country he loved and he had saved many lives in the process. It appeared that he had been a man of character and convictions, and yet he had endured the worst that life has to offer. Pete was just an ordinary man who had done the best he could, in the circumstances he found himself in. What more can anyone do?

How often do we look at older men or women without really seeing them? Do we realize the history that is represented by each of these lives? Many of them made extraordinary sacrifices that I can’t even imagine. They lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They survived marriages, divorces, the birth and deaths of loved ones. They have had a jobs and careers through the years and possibly lost them both. As they aged they have battled their own health problems and they may be bravely living with a disease or condition right now that will eventually claim their life. Everyone that is my age and younger owes a debt to those who came before us that we will never be able to repay. When you see an older person it is easy to forget that they were once the exact same age as you. When you look at them you are seeing your future. We must treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve because one day we will be in their place.

Who knows, maybe someday I’ll sit in the corner of a restaurant and drink coffee with a group of my contemporaries. Perhaps we will also trade lies, exaggerated stories and mindless conversation to pass the time. And if I do, I’m sure I’ll remember Pete and his friends. I will be fortunate to have what they had.

The baptistery was by far the most fascinating part of the sanctuary for me. I grew up going to an average size church (not like the monster mega-churches they have now where you could hold a Rolling Stones concert) and yet my church, like every other Baptist church I ever set foot in, had its own swimming pool. I remember my mother whacking me across the hands one Sunday morning when I suggested the baptistery should have a diving board. “Don’t make jokes like that” she whispered, “God can hear you.” That made me wonder whether God had picked up on some of the other things I had heard recently. Was it safe to assume that He had heard what my Uncle Edward said last week when he turned his thumb into purple pulp after he missed that pesky nail with the hammer? And what about my friend Gary who only a few days before in the boy’s room at school had accidentally caught a very sensitive piece of flesh in his jeans zipper? He said a few things that I bet God couldn’t miss. And then there was my Aunt Shirley, who for the last two weeks had been trying to pass a kidney stone. The things that came out of her mouth each time the pain hit made a child’s remark about a baptistery diving board seem pretty tame. Therefore, I did not feel any imminent threat from a bolt of lightning.

But it cannot be overstated that being baptized was an important part of our faith. We were not called Baptists for nothing. The grownups took it quite seriously, however they preferred not to do baptisms on Sunday mornings. You see this symbolic ritual takes a little while. You have to sing a couple of extra hymns to buy time while the minister and the person who is “going under” get into the proper attire. This is an important moment in someone’s life and the minister has a special robe that he wears just for this occasion. The point being that all this extra activity made it difficult for church to let out at high noon so we could beat the Lutherans to the good restaurants. I always assumed that from his vantage point, as he looked out over his flock during his sermons, our pastor could see the left arms discreetly being raised so that wristwatches could be checked as 11:45 rolled around. And if silence was maintained while our minister paused to look up a Bible passage you could actually hear the hungry grumblings of a few stomachs in nearby pews. You always knew who the guilty parties were because they would shift uncomfortably in their seats and fold their arms tightly against the offending digestive tracts.

Consequently, at my church the baptisms were usually performed at the conclusion of the evening service. This meant, as I once unfortunately mentioned to my mom, that you missed the beginning of Bonanza on TV – but as my mother heatedly pointed out to me, “That is a small price to pay to get into heaven!” We kids, however, did not view these events with the same gravity as the adults. We always referred to baptism as, “getting dunked”. As in, “Did you hear? Tommy’s little brother is getting dunked next week, and he’s scared because he only knows how to dog paddle.”  Back in my church-going-days no other religious experience made me happier than when my minister announced that someone was going to be “dunked” the following week. (My words – not his.) Even though I was quite a fan of Bonanza, I looked forward all week with great anticipation to the Sunday night event. Because when you take nervous human beings, some of them extremely old or extremely young, add ice-cold water and a super slippery surface, fun is just around the corner.

I always tried to convince my parents to sit as close to the front of the sanctuary as possible on nights when baptisms were scheduled. I didn’t want to miss a grisly thing. The first part of the ceremony was actually physically challenging. The minister entered from the right side and the newly converted from the left. Most people waded in very cautiously, but occasionally you would get someone who was so “full of the spirit” that they bounded in. This, of course, created waves (not unlike doing a cannonball into a pool) that occasionally crested over the clear Plexiglas that lined the front of the baptistery dousing unsuspecting choir members who were suddenly damp with the watery results of the unexpected tsunami. Women, who just the day before, had gotten their hair done for the Sunday festivities now sat biting their lip trying to fill their hearts with forgiveness for their new brother or sister in Christ who had left them dripping.

But no matter how cautiously people entered the baptistery; there were frequently slips and falls. Our minister would always try to take their hand and lead them slowly down the steps, but there was only so much he could do. The shock of the icy cold water was so startling that many flinched and lost their balance. Usually he was able to grab them before it was too late, but occasionally he would lose one all together and down they would go, slipping out of view like the Titanic in the North Atlantic. Of course total immersion was the whole point of this ritual but even if you went completely under when you slipped it didn’t count as the real deal. You were not baptized because the pastor had not gotten to say the necessary words before the act. I cannot remember the exact speech that he delivered, but it always ended with the line, “I now baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” So if you made a public spectacle of yourself by falling and having to be retrieved from the bottom you still had to stand there soaking wet and freezing while the important words were said. Our pastor would then cover your nose and mouth with his hand, lean you backwards until you were completely under the water and then lift you back up to a standing position. The moment the new church member’s head once again appeared above the surface, the sanctuary exploded with a chorus of hearty AMENS. The fact that you had taken a double dip had no religious ramifications. You were simply baptized just like the individuals who were blessed with better coordination and who were considerably more graceful than you. But at least you were in the club.

Sometimes I would hit the jackpot and there would be more than just one person being baptized. This was akin to getting to go to a double header instead of just one game. It was basic math. The more individuals that headed into the tank, the more opportunities for mayhem. This would mean a lot more sloshing as people entered, got dunked and then left, making way for the next convert. The older ladies in the choir would be frantically covering their crunchy sprayed hairdos in a futile attempt to keep them dry.

Our minister was an average size man but occasionally he would be presented with a challenge worthy of Samson as he tried to lean back and then hoist up a 300 pounder. There would be clearly audible grunts and groans as he attempted to maintain the dignity of both parties while struggling not to lose his grip or be pulled under himself by the whirlpool caused by the displacement of so much water. I would sit on the edge of my seat fascinated by the events unfolding before me. It was far more entertaining than anything that Hoss and Little Joe might be up to.

But there was one baptism that stands out in my memory above all the rest. She was a thoroughly unpleasant lady in her late forties or early fifties. The only other details I can really remember about her were that she had jet black hair and she was very fastidious about her appearance. She had been visiting the church for some time, but the other ladies didn’t warm up to her. They claimed she thought she was better than them, and they said she had her nose stuck up in the air. Soon the gossip spread that there was no way that could be her natural hair color. She must be dying it, and the consensus was that she had chosen a less than authentic shade. Be that as it may, one morning she responded to the invitation given by our pastor. The two of them prayed together at the altar, and she was saved. The following Sunday evening she would be baptized. Due to her unpopularity a low turnout was expected, so in the hopes of boosting attendance it was announced that refreshments would be served in Fellowship Hall following the ceremony. That did the trick. Baptists are hearty eaters so the sanctuary was packed that night as the faithful sat anticipating tasty cold cuts and chocolate cake.

The big moment arrived and both participants made it safely to the middle of the baptistery. Our pastor said the necessary words and then turned to the lady. She looked out dramatically at the crowd and you could hear the other women whispering things like, “Who does she think she is?” “Doesn’t she know this is about the Lord – not her?” After a few moments the murmuring stopped and our minister placed his hand over her face and leaned her back. This was boring. It was going perfectly. I sat wondering if there was ice cream to go with the chocolate cake, but suddenly my attention was riveted back to the baptistery. As our pastor gently lifted the woman back up to the surface her hair did not come with her. A jet black wig was bobbing up and down in the water looking curiously like some aquatic creature, perhaps an otter. As it turned out the lady actually had long gray hair, which at that moment was wet and matted. Three hundred believers sat in stunned silence. There was no round of AMENS. I had never heard it so quiet in my church. All eyes were trained on the wig as it floated aimlessly in the water. Our poor minister stood frozen in horror. The dilemma he was now presented with was not a situation that was typically addressed when studying theology. The lady stood cold and shivering and when she tried to discreetly reach for the wig it floated away. Finally our pastor reacted. He spun to his left and grabbed the floating hair. But instead of being satisfied with having control of the offender he did the unthinkable by trying to make things right. I sat entranced, watching with the same morbid curiosity one has when they happen across an automobile accident, as our minister took the re-captured hair and placed it back on the lady’s head. Of course, by this time, the wig itself had filled with water and all of it came pouring out as he tried to situate the hair back on her head at the proper angle. Together they both slinked out of the baptistery without a shred of dignity left between them. The moment they disappeared from view the comments started flying. “See! I told that wasn’t her real hair color!” “What on earth was the Reverend thinking?” “Hey let’s hit the cold cuts!”

It is 11:45 on a Saturday night and you are sound asleep when the phone rings. You fumble around for the receiver, pick it up and mumble “hello”. The man’s voice on the line is very calm, but the words he says changes your life forever. A quick burst of adrenalin surges through your body as he states in an even voice that your 17-year-old daughter has been killed in a car accident. You are stunned and you feel like you can’t breath. You have gone from being groggy to more alert than you have ever been in your life. You begin to argue that it can’t be true, but he is certain. Her identification matches this address and phone number. The emotion of absolute heartbreak now comes flooding over you and you can barely speak. The state trooper is patient. He has, unfortunately, made this call many times. He explains that your daughter and her girlfriend were struck head on by a drunk driver. They were both dead before help could arrive. There is more explanation given and some phone numbers you are to call but it is just a blur. You can no longer focus on what is being said. Finally after expressing his deepest condolences the officer hangs up.   

As you begin to sob you simply cannot believe the horror is true. Only 4 or 5 hours ago you kissed her goodbye. You were going to spend the day together tomorrow. She was so beautiful and kind and intelligent. She had been making plans for her future and she wanted to be a force for change in the world. Everyone loved her and she had countless friends. She had her whole life ahead of her. For Christ’s sake she was only 17 years old. As the realization slowly sets in that this is not a nightmare but actual reality, you begin to give up. You collapse into absolutely paralyzing grief. A million questions fill your mind. How could this have happened? Who is responsible? Why did it have to be your daughter? What had your family done to deserve this?  

Months later, the days following the phone call will be difficult to remember. You know you managed to function somehow and to make the decisions that were necessary, but it is not clear how you were able to keep going through the overwhelming pain. You spent hours breaking the news to family members. You went to the mortuary and picked out her casket. You endured the funeral itself and then finally you said goodbye for the last time at the graveside. You can remember bending down and gently kissing her coffin and knowing with certainty that this was the end. She was gone forever and you would never see her again. From that moment on you were not the same person. No matter how long you live there will always be a part of you missing. You know that her birthday and holidays will bring fresh pain. You will watch her friends go on to college, get married and start families, and although happy for them, you will not be able to help feeling a certain amount of envy for all the things you and your daughter will miss. Until your final breath you will never understand why her life had to be taken.  

What must be realized is that with needless death there is responsibility. In this particular case there were many individuals who played a role in allowing this tragedy to occur. First and foremost was the person who tried to drive while under the influence of alcohol. That decision was not only stupid but also incredibly selfish because he not only put his life at risk but the lives of countless other innocent people. Also bearing responsibility are the friends he was with who did not prevent him from driving. They could have arranged for some other type of transportation, but they let him get behind the wheel knowing full well he was impaired. They did not want to offend him. Also at fault was the bartender that continued to serve him even after it was apparent he had consumed too many drinks. His desire for profit superseded any concern for the public’s safety. All of these individuals could have prevented needless death by taking action, but they refused. None of them had the courage or the conviction to step in and take responsibility for a situation that was out of control. Consequently two innocent young women were killed through no fault of their own. Their families were devastated and dozens of lives were adversely changed forever. 

This example demonstrates how needless death can occur in our lives. But for those in extreme poverty if happens in other ways. For instance, a child chronically suffers from malnutrition and eventually hunger overwhelms her immune system. She fights off illness after illness but each one leaves her weaker. Finally the hunger ravages her body to the point where she cannot recover and she dies…So, who or what is responsible for this little girl’s death? Is it drought? Is it famine? Is it spiraling food prices? Is it just an act of God – or is it you and I? You may wonder how you could possibly have anything to do with the death of a little girl from hunger when she is thousands of miles away. After all, you would never knowingly harm an innocent child. You love children. However, because those of us who live in comfort in the West have the ability to feed those who are hungry, we have a responsibility to take action…but we choose not to. Why?  

We are all part of the same human family. We are all responsible for each other. Every life is important and each life has equal value. When a needless death occurs anywhere in the world there is responsibility shared by those of us who could have prevented it. The fact that you don’t want that kind of responsibility on your shoulders doesn’t matter. You carry the burden whether you want it or not. Just like the individuals who had the knowledge that a man was going to drive under the influence you know that a child is going to die from hunger. Just as they had a responsibility to take his car keys to prevent a tragedy you are under the same obligation to feed a child. In both cases a death can be prevented by another person if they are only willing to get involved instead of just turning away. Each day you have multiple opportunities to save human life. It is your responsibility to do what you can to prevent death and suffering among those who are depending on you for help. To do otherwise makes each of us an accomplice to tragedy.  

ANYTIME AN INNOCENT PERSON DIES BECAUSE OF THE NEGLECT OF SOMEONE ELSE, IT IS MORALLY WRONG.

WE ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR OTHERS.

Of course she is subtly trying to convey the fact that when a meal has reached the smoke alarm stage it has passed beyond inedible and into the realm of, “Don’t feed that to the dog – it would be animal cruelty.” I cannot begin to tell you how many pans we have had to throw away because the charred food had chemically bonded with the metal and become one. The important thing to remember about this scenario is that I have been ruining pots and pans through 39 years of marriage, but my wife keeps letting me try. I don’t understand her reasoning – I can only assume that she finds me irresistible in an apron.

My cooking skills are so pathetic that one time I even managed to set a cup of coffee on fire in the microwave. I was drinking from a plastic travel mug with a foam covered handle. Unfortunately, I didn’t know that the handle underneath the foam was metal. The coffee had gotten cold so I decided to reheat it. I placed it in the microwave, hit 1 minute and 30 seconds, and then turned back to the sink. It didn’t take long until I saw sparks out of the corner of my eye. I spun around and saw that the mug was melting into a flaming puddle. I threw open the door of the microwave and thick black smoke came bellowing out, which immediately activated the shriek of the smoke detectors which then, in turn, sent the cat hurtling between my legs and out through the pet door. As I stood coughing and futilely waving a dish towel at the unfolding disaster, my wife walked into the kitchen. She silently surveyed the scene for a moment and then stepped into the pantry and came out with a fire extinguisher. Two quick blasts were all that was required to calm the mayhem and restore order. She simply looked at me and said, “We don’t want the neighbors calling the fire department…again.”

And that is why my wife does most of the cooking in our home. But her ability to consistently create enjoyable meals is made even more amazing by the various dietary restrictions she is forced to contend with. I am on a low sodium diet. I have high cholesterol so I require a “heart healthy” diet. And most challenging of all, I am a vegetarian – and I hate vegetables. So add it up. No salt. No fried or greasy food. No fats. No beef, no chicken, no pork and a very limited tolerance for veggies. What would you fix for dinner? It sounds like some kind of cruel contest on a television show for cooking. The ones where the tattooed covered contestant cries when the judges cut him from the show because the piercing from his eyebrow fell into the guacamole he prepared. (Backstage he sobs, “They didn’t even give me a chance. Once my guacamole was strained they would have found it delicious!”) It is important that I tell you now that my wife has no tattoos (that I’ve discovered to date) and no part of her anatomy is pierced. I am not saying that these two points are what makes her an excellent cook, but at least we don’t have to worry about chipping a tooth on a small piece of metal during a meal.

But as talented as my wife is in the kitchen there is one thing that even she cannot overcome. In my opinion one of the most disturbing phrases in the English language consists of just two words; new recipe. There is nothing that sucks the life out of me more than entering the kitchen after a hard day at work and asking my wife what is for dinner and hearing her happily chirp, “I’m trying a new recipe!” (Bear in mind that this will be a new recipe without beef, chicken, pork or vegetables.) I firmly believe with all my heart that all of the good recipes have already been created. After all, human beings have been eating for quite some time. It should be obvious to everyone that a new recipe basically consists of ruining what was otherwise a perfect form of food. A good example is putting a fruit such as pineapple on one of the greatest culinary creations of all time; pizza. Now I understand that geography can be a tricky subject for certain people, but how many actually believe that pineapples are raised in Italy?

A second reason new recipes are created is in an utterly useless attempt to hide something disgusting. Each person has their own personal list of foods that repulse them. However, some items seem to make the list more often than others including; liver, brussels sprouts, beef tongue (fun to look at but not to eat) eggplant, beets, spinach (a land based form of seaweed) artichokes, lima beans, sweet potatoes (some insist on calling them yams, but that sounds like something you get a cramp in if you don’t warm up properly, “My yams are killing me today.”) calamari, turnips, oysters on the half shell (they look like they’ve already been eaten once) squash, rhubarb and haggis (a delightfully irresistible concoction consisting of a sheep’s heart, liver and lungs encased in the animal‘s stomach – yum!). I’m sure each of you can add your own assortment of loathsome choices to this list, but the point is that no matter how you prepare it, cook it or serve it you cannot hide the gruesome fact that underneath that sauce, glaze or layer of bread crumbs lurks something so nauseating that no sane human being would be able to eat it and keep it down. I’m certain that new recipes are second only to illicit drugs when it comes to reasons to have your stomach pumped.

However, on the nights when I am not forced to endure a new recipe, the meals are usually spectacular. On these occasions I try to shower my wife with compliments. An example of this involves dental work. Many years ago, as the result of a small accident, I had oral surgery that resulted in extensive bridgework. So if I come into the kitchen and everything smells reasonably edible I like to praise my wife by exclaiming, “This smells so good I’m going to put in my teeth!” This never fails to elicit sheer joy on her part. (Who doesn’t appreciate a sincere compliment?) When we sit down to eat, I like to look out over the feast and unleash the flattery by lovingly whispering “I don’t think we’re going to need the number for the POISON HOTLINE tonight!” This turns her into a quivering mass of gratitude. But the real compliment comes at the end of the meal. After consuming enough calories to be able to hibernate for the winter I like to undo my belt and let loose with a window rattling belch which makes the cat elevate off of the curio cabinet like a helicopter. At that moment I know that life is good, and I’m sure my wife realizes what a lucky woman she is to have me.

Growing up in the heartland meant that religious faith played a huge role in your daily existence. It was not only your one way ticket to the afterlife, it was also the cornerstone of the community that provided a social network that most people depended on to at least some extent. When someone died, or as the Baptists put it, “Harriet went on to her great reward.” the church not only provided the setting and the minister for the funeral, church members pitched in and made their favorite covered dishes and deposited them in the home of the dearly departed so that those who were left behind to struggle on in this world full of sin would at least know that they had tuna noodle casserole waiting to be enjoyed. The congregation’s intentions were pure of heart but, God bless ‘em, their recipes came straight from hell. Didn’t they realize the family was already suffering? Why add to their misery by preparing dishes that, after being re-heated three days later, made the diners think that perhaps Harriet was the lucky one.

I have always been fond of history, but as a child I quickly noticed that Bible history and scholastic history were rarely in step. Whenever I inquired about this dichotomy to any of the adults in my life I was usually told something along the lines of, “Don’t think so much”. This seemed odd seeing as how they were obsessed about me learning everything else by thinking. Math, spelling, reading and geography were relentlessly forced on children my age, but now I was being told, “not to think”. I had to stop and think about not thinking. To me this was a quandary. How do you learn if you don’t think? I mean there was an entire world of things to learn about, wouldn’t thinking be useful in some small way? After giving much thought to whether I should think or not, I decided I would go ahead and think all I wanted – I would just do it privately without raising suspicions. I would play along with whatever they wanted to tell me and then I would secretly try to determine the truth on my own. All of my thinking would be done in a clandestine manner inside my bedroom. Sometimes my mother would knock on my door and innocently ask, “What are you doing in there?” and I would lie and answer, “I’m just sitting here not thinking.” This always placated her. “That’s good. Thinking will just give you a headache.”

The first problem I can remember that caused consternation for me was the thorny issue regarding the dinosaurs. Most young boys are fascinated by these giant creatures, and I was no exception. My science teacher said they had become extinct 65 million years ago, however my Sunday school teacher claimed the earth was only 20,000 years old. This small discrepancy disturbed me. As I sat in my bedroom secretly thinking about how to reconcile these two numbers it slowly dawned on me that you could not have it both ways. When two adult authority figures in your life are 64,980,000 years apart on one simple fact, you realize there is no middle ground.  You’ve got to choose one or the other. There is no rational way you can forge those two numbers together in your mind without developing that inevitable headache. So after weeks of secret thought, I made the decision that I still embrace to this day; I chose my science teacher over my Sunday school teacher. Both were good men, of the highest character with the best of intentions, but only one could be right. I now understood why thinking was discouraged. When presented with two choices, one side had to lose – and in the heartland choosing science, which was the minority opinion, was not the popular thing to do.

The Southern Baptists were a warm friendly bunch – as long as you agreed with them, but they had little patience for someone who rocked the boat. On more than one occasion I remember being asked to wait outside in the hallway during Sunday School because I had asked a question that apparently revealed my crumbling faith. What seemed to cause the most issues for me were the classic Bible stories. I specifically remember that one trip to the hallway occurred as a result of me asking my Sunday school teacher, a portly good-natured man, how Noah got the polar bears for the Ark. This seemed like a reasonable question a nine-year old would ask, but my teacher was not having any of it. As he was closing the door to make certain I could no longer be a disruptive influence he gravely said “Son, why don’t you wait in the hallway and think about why you would ever question the Word of God.” I was stunned. NOW they’re telling me to think? This was becoming more and more confusing. Stop and think – have faith – don’t think – believe with all your heart – Bible truths versus scientific facts…what a mess. I would spend my teenage years thinking about these inconsistencies and conflicts of opinion.

Although my intellectual curiosity eventually led me away from the church, my memories of the devoutly faithful people I grew up with are quite different from what I see portrayed in the press and in the entertainment field. I suppose that individuals who believe a certain way make themselves easy targets for cynics and those who feel compelled to look down on them. I don’t see it that way. Some of the nicest, kindest most compassionate people I’ve ever met are born again Christians. And, by the same token, some of the most arrogant, judgmental and hypocritical people I’ve ever met are also evangelicals. That is the point. We are all just human beings. In any organization there are going to be good and bad folks. If we absolutely feel like we must judge each other than we should at least do it on an individual basis instead of targeting entire faiths or denominations and making blanket statements that are unfair to the majority in that group.

So although we were never able to agree on matters of spirituality, I still have warm feelings for the members of the church where I grew up. They were good and decent people and they played an important role in my childhood. I am a better person for having known them. Maybe it’s time for all of us to be a little more tolerant and patient with each other no matter what our differences of belief or non-belief. Let’s embrace acceptance instead of division. After all, it is the Christian thing to do.

In fact it comes too easy. It has become ingrained in our minds down through history that killing is not only acceptable but also necessary. Taking life is something we are willing to tolerate if we believe it is beneficial to our own lives. How did we get to this point? Why are we so blasé about ending life? Why are we numb to the news that someone with a gun has gone on a rampage and killed a dozen people? Why do we ignore the smuggled information that a country has executed hundreds of dissidents? Why do we passively accept the deaths of 30,000 human beings each day from extreme poverty?

Killing is an accepted part of our society. In fact, some people actually kill for a living. For example, we pay exterminators and veterinarians to end various forms of life. Whether it’s to eliminate unwanted rodents or to put your beloved cat out of its suffering we are more than willing to have someone else do our killing for us. People employed in the food chain have the grim job of taking life. They slaughter cattle, pigs, chickens and turkeys so that we can engage in the unhealthy habit of eating animal flesh. These animals don’t have to end up as our food. We can live a long healthy life with a vegetarian diet, but we decide to consume living creatures all the same because we enjoy the taste. They die so we can be momentarily happy.

Of course some of us enjoy killing animals ourselves. We go hunting and spend a significant amount of time and money in the effort to kill defenseless animals. Why do we do this?…It must be because we enjoy the thrill of killing. Yes, the animal can be consumed, but it’s not necessary to preserve our life that we take their life. It is a willing decision on our part to kill for our own selfish satisfaction. Obviously, there was a time when killing for food was an absolute necessity for the survival of the human race, but that is no longer the case. Now we kill for the pure joy and excitement of it.

It is quite remarkable how we determine exactly which creatures we should feel guilty about killing. The same person who goes out and shoots a deer without remorse will feel terrible if he hits a dog with his truck on the way home. What’s the difference? They were both living creatures. They both had an awareness of life. They could both create more life. Is it because we planned to kill one but the other was an accident? Should we only feel guilt when we kill something without planning its death ahead of time? Perhaps if we know we are going to kill in advance it make it easier to commit the act.

We know that one million human beings are going to die in the next 34 days from extreme poverty. That is an absolute fact. Does that make it easier for us to allow it to happen? Yes it does…because if one million people died in an earthquake in that same time span the entire world would be rushing to help. However, in the case of a million poverty deaths virtually nothing will be done, and those deaths will happen again in the next 34 days and again in the next.

How death occurs also seems to play an important role in how we react to it. Sudden violent death grabs our attention and provokes an immediate response out of our sorrow for those who have lost their lives – while slow relentless grinding death, even on a huge scale, doesn’t seem to bother us at all. We happily continue on with our lives without giving a thought to the tens of thousands who die each day from hunger, illness and disease. The irony is that we feel sincere remorse for the deaths of those who die in ways that cannot be prevented such as earthquakes, hurricanes and tsunamis. On the other hand, we feel nothing for the victims of extreme poverty, a killer that could be prevented – if we would only make the effort.

Killing has become an integral part of the human experience because of our propensity to kill those who disagree with us. We call it war. It is our absolute favorite way to solve almost any problem. Some one encroaches on our territory – kill them. Some one takes some of our resources – kill them. Some one does not believe the way we do – kill them. It is an automatic response. Individuals, groups and entire nations react this way. Countries and regions will go to war over almost anything. Thousands will die over who has the better God. Unimaginable suffering will occur when one race feels it is superior to another. Death and destruction will rain down on the innocent as various powers fight over stretches of barren wasteland.

Nations take their finest young people and train them in the most effective ways to kill. Countries spend themselves into financial ruin trying to produce the largest military possible. Of course when war breaks out it is almost always the innocent who are slaughtered. Defenseless civilians bear the brunt of the killing. They are left dead, wounded and homeless, and if they are fortunate enough to survive our lust for killing they quickly plunge into poverty.

As a society we willingly condone killing. If someone takes the life of another person we put them in prison for years until we get around to killing them. One death ultimately leads to two deaths. We have decided this is fair and just. We have decided it is the world we want our children to grow up in. We want our kids to know that it is alright to take the life of another human being.

But what about issues that are far less clear in our society regarding our desire to end life? When someone is terminally ill we debate whether or not we should end their suffering. If a person has been medically declared as brain dead we struggle with the idea of stopping life support. When a woman is pregnant and does not want to have the baby our society is torn apart about whether she has the right to an abortion. These kinds of deaths we agonize over. These kinds of deaths seem to involve innocent victims. These kinds of deaths make us stop and search for the true meaning of allowing another human being to die.

So why do we not demonstrate the same level of compassion or concern for the millions who die each year from extreme poverty? They are innocent victims too. They have not done anything wrong. They have not harmed anyone. They are not at war with anyone. They are not a threat to anyone. They just want their children to be safe. They want the opportunity to live in good health with dignity. They want to have enough food and clean water to survive on. Are these unreasonable desires?

Unfortunately, killing becomes easier the more we do it, and by far the easiest way of all to kill is through neglect. You don’t have to pull a trigger or drop a bomb. You don’t have to face your victim or see their suffering. You can simply turn away and kill them with your indifference and selfishness. Neglect kills just as effectively as any man-made weapon, and its efficiency is increased by our refusal to acknowledge our part in its use. Most of us believe that we could never take an innocent person’s life. We just don’t think we are capable of such a thing. But we kill everyday. We kill through our lack of compassion, our unwillingness to share our good fortune and through our preoccupation with our own lives. Neglect, apathy and self centeredness are our weapons of choice. Our victims are mostly children, many under the age of five. We allow them to die because we don’t want to make the effort to help them survive.

Each day we have a choice to make. Do we try to save the lives of the 30,000 who will die or do we once again turn our backs and look the other way? Although we do not want to admit it, we are more than willing to let people die so that we are not inconvenienced. We don’t want to make sacrifices no matter how small they may be. We don’t want to accept any responsibility. We don’t want to feel guilt, and we don’t want to admit to ourselves that, as a species, we are quite comfortable with letting other human beings die. Killing is what we do.

THE PEOPLE OF EXTREME POVERTY JUST WANT TO LIVE. ARE THEY ASKING FOR TOO MUCH?

As a child I was forced to go camping, against my will, on a regular basis. It was awful. My dad always chose a spot as far away from other human beings as possible. “We don’t want to be trampled!” he would bellow. However, trampling was not an issue. Disappearing from the face of the earth without a trace was far more likely. I always assumed that my parents and I would be discovered by park rangers once they noticed the vultures circling over our remains. I figured we would meet our demise at the hands of a heartland version of the Manson family. I would lay awake at night listening to twigs crunch, certain that crazed psychopaths were getting ready to pounce on us. 

On a less dramatic level, our ridiculously remote locations were particularly annoying to me because it was my job to “fetch” the water. (Out in the heartland we don’t “get” something or “retrieve” something, we fetch it.) As a nine year old boy I was pretty much the same as I am as an adult – frail, thin and averse to any kind of physical labor. So, once the campsite was chosen, out on the edge of civilization, it was my laborious task to grab a couple of large metal buckets (they were heavy even when empty) locate the nearest water spigot which never seemed to be in the same zip code and lug back the two containers that were overflowing with a thick brownish liquid that did not remotely resemble anything you would actually want to drink. With every backbreaking step, I could clearly see lizards and assorted other small creatures scurrying in every direction. Even at an age where you are still just dreaming about shaving I knew that the presence of small lizards meant that six-foot rattlesnakes were also lurking, just waiting for the opportunity to bite a kid from the city who was foolish enough to camp out in the middle of nowhere. To this day I will drink virtually any other liquid before I will take a sip of water. 

As best as I could ascertain, one of the primary reasons for these forced retreats into the dark ages was to endure the horror of fishing. Just saying the word makes me yawn because when it comes to absolute sheer boredom there is nothing else on the face of the earth that can rival fishing. The unrelenting monotony of staring at your line in the water while sitting in a small metal boat in the middle of the lake, being baked alive in 100 degree temperatures with no shade whatsoever and not being allowed to speak for hours because “you might scare the fish!” all combined to make for a riveting adventure. 

And, if by some miracle, you actually happened to catch something there was the wonderful reward of cleaning it. As your future dinner flopped uncontrollably, you used a dull, rusty, bent knife to decapitate the living aquatic animal. (This procedure usually put the brakes on all the flopping.) Then using a firm repetitive scraping motion you removed the scales from its flesh. Now with the preliminaries out of the way you got down to the fun stuff. You split its belly open and disemboweled it. All of its internal organs had to be removed. “Don’t be a baby! Get in there with both hands and get that thing clean”. The slimy entrails were carefully slid into a neat pile which instantly drew hundreds of flies. Then, as you swatted uselessly at the buzzing pests, you cut the fish into filets that would eventually be cooked in so much grease it would make you gag. Later that evening, as we all chowed down on the skillet fried delicacy – who only hours before was swimming contentedly in a muddy lake but was now making a beeline for my colon – my mom would casually remark, “This is good. No fishy taste at all”. I would stare at her in disbelief. Then what was the point? Why had we gone through hell in order to catch and eviscerate a docile creature just so we could be thankful that it did not taste like what it was?! This was legalized insanity, not a vacation. 

When you take leave of your senses and willingly choose to try and survive without the necessary extravagances that makes modern life bearable, just so you can spend six days and five nights in the great outdoors “roughing it”, you are behaving in such a way that perhaps indicates it is time for you to consider undergoing professional observation. Camping is nothing more than the intrusion of fragile human beings into the domain of animals and insects who are far more suited to the land and water than we will ever be. It is the immutable law of nature that only the strong survive. And since I was not a strong child, I had absolutely no desire to try and survive in nature. I was more than happy surviving in air conditioning, watching TV and getting tasty snacks out of the refrigerator. Why in God’s name anyone would want to leave the indispensable possessions they had spent a lifetime accumulating was beyond my understanding. In other words, why would I want to take a vacation from all the things I loved? 

Of course part of the “magic” of camping was getting to spend endless days together as a family – with no obvious means of escape. That was heaven on earth. A good example of the heart warming times we shared together would be an episode concerning my father and a rental boat. We had just headed out on the lake to go fishing – excitement was in the air – when my dad decided to share his vast knowledge of seamanship. (He had been a cook in the Navy.) I sat spellbound for several minutes while my father delivered an utterly useless lecture about boating safety at the conclusion of which he stood up and promptly fell out of the boat. I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to have to stop and pee right then and there. When my dad finally bobbed up to the surface his humiliation was completed by the ridicule of teenage boys along the bank of the lake who were screaming like acne covered maniacs about the old guy who fell out of his boat. The story ends with the vivid recollection of my mother verbally berating my father, whose spirit was now broken, as he slowly used clothes pins to hang up wet dollar bills from his wallet. 

However, my mother was not spared from the unbridled joy of camping either. One night while we sat playing cards by the light of an old kerosene lantern, which gave off fumes that smelled worse than a pile of fish entrails, my mom stretched and yawned. Now as anyone who has spent time around these antiquated illumination devices can readily attest to, the meager light they give off has the incredible ability to attract every kind of flying insect known to entomology. Moths, beetle bugs, scary flying critters with huge wing spans, and horrible loud buzzing things all converge the moment the match is struck. You end up playing cards with one hand while you continuously swat at dive bombing invaders, who may or may not have stingers loaded with paralyzing venom, with your other hand. The camping fun just never stops. 

So, even though she was caught up in the pulse pounding excitement of playing cards in near darkness out in the middle of nowhere, my mother stretched and yawned. At that exact moment a large hissing beetle flew directly into her wide open mouth. As my dad and I looked on in a silent mixture of horror and odd fascination, my mother instinctively clamped her mouth shut which resulted in a clearly audible crunch followed by a reflexive gulp. Her eyes bulged out until they became the size of ping pong balls as the giant insect slid down her throat and plopped into her stomach joining the greasy fried  fish we‘d had for dinner (for the third night in a row). As my mom bolted from the picnic table and ran off into the darkness retching and gagging I remember thinking to myself how this doesn’t happen if you’re sitting at home watching your favorite TV show while enjoying some chips and dip. 

But as bad as it was during the rest of the day, things really went down hill when we went to bed. People with money did not camp the way we did. They either rented a cabin or stayed in a lodge, where they could watch TV and eat chips and dip. However, my parents were convinced that these poor souls missed out on the true exhilaration of communing with nature. That meant that you weren’t really camping unless you suffered. With that in mind, we always slept in a tent. This tent had to be assembled. This was a skill my father did not possess. The reason why the ability to construct suitable shelter eluded my dad was never determined, however, he was very sensitive about this particular deficit, and he became highly defensive whenever it was mentioned - and, boy, did my mom mention it. In the early years of camping it is difficult to remember precisely how many times the tent collapsed on us in the middle of the night, but I’m pretty sure my mother kept an accurate count.  

Now I willingly admit that I inherited my father’s inability to fix or repair anything – therefore, I am not in a position to be judgmental in regard to his ineptitude with tools or his bewildering refusal to read any type of instructions – but it was precisely because my father carried those two burdens through life that he cleverly developed his own special ways of solving problems. They weren’t particularly effective solutions, but they were unique. In the case of the collapsing tent, my dad came up with the idea of individually propping up each of the four walls from the inside with a baseball bat aimed at precisely the correct angle to apply the necessary pressure to keep the structure upright. This was a small tent. When you took an adult male, who considered himself to be a clever inventor – his livid spouse, who was just as certain her husband was the most incompetent man on the face of the earth – and their impressionable young son, who was scarred for life by these kinds of experiences – and crammed them into a 6’x5’ area you were creating a recipe for a family meltdown. But then when you added four baseball bats into this restricted area you were talking about a night of sheer misery. Out of necessity I learned to sleep, or at least lay still for hours, in contorted, spasm inducing positions (just the slightest brush against a bat brought the entire house of cards down on our heads) while I endured my dad’s snoring at decibels that scared off the most ferocious of wildlife. 

However, each night, no matter how careful we were, the inevitable would happen. My dad, who for some inexplicable reason loved to drink strong coffee right before retiring, would always have to get up in the dead of night to answer the call of nature. Not a particularly graceful man in the light of day, he became a one man disaster waiting to happen in the darkness. As he frantically tried to escape from our little prison, fighting mightily against the overwhelming sense of urgency that consumed his bladder – while doing his best not to accidentally step on the throat of a loved one – he would inadvertently clip one of the Louisville Sluggers, bringing the entire canvas shelter down on top of us. At that point, no longer needing to be careful, he would sprint off into the night to seek relief. My mother, who was not a ray of sunshine upon awakening under the best of circumstances, would immediately begin to regale me with what a special kind of idiot my father was, while off in the distance I could hear my dad happily whizzing away the coffee in the bushes. I say “happily” because for some unknown reason when my father whizzes he likes to whistle. I can’t explain this particular phenomenon, but after years of experiencing it, anytime I hear another human being whistle – I have to go. 

It has now been more than 40 years since I went camping with my parents, and I must say that I have many fond memories from my childhood – but camping is not among them. Even now, after all these years, if I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still hear my dad calling out to me as we pack for the next camping excursion into hell, “Don’t forget to grab the bats!” 

This medium size state with its uniquely shaped panhandle has been my home for 56 of my 57 years. My family moved here when I was just nine months old which makes it the only home I‘ve ever really known. However, for a good part of my life I spent a significant amount of time wishing I lived somewhere else. This flat, dusty, wind-swept stretch of earth did not hold the same appeal for me as an exciting place like New York City where every opportunity and possibility existed. It wasn’t that Oklahoma was a bad place; it just wasn’t where I wanted to be.

Part of the problem was that I didn’t fit in. Out here in the heartland people drive pick-up trucks. They hunt and they fish. They know how to work with their hands, and they have a special affinity for the land. They embrace nature, and they spend as much time outdoors as they can…I might as well be from another planet. I drive a car made by a company based in South Korea. I’m a vegetarian so I have no interest in killing living things in order to consume them. I have no ability to use my hands in any meaningful type of work, and I can stay indoors for days on end sitting in front of a computer without giving nature a second thought until I hear the squirrels chewing on the wiring in the attic.

But that’s not all. There were other ways in which I felt I did not belong. Politically, Oklahoma is very conservative. I’m a liberal Democrat. My home state is part of the so called “Bible Belt” and Christian fundamentalism is prominent. I choose to abstain from all forms of organized religion. Oklahoma is a hotbed for country music. Garth, Reba, Vince and Carrie all come from here, however, I prefer Dylan and the Stones. I love big cities, but there is an overall rural feel to Oklahoma. Even in the metropolitan areas of this state you know you are only a few miles away from cows. It is an odd place in the sense that it is comprised, for the most part, of empty space. On a clear day you can see 15 miles in every direction. There is nothing, man-made or otherwise, to obstruct your view.

Oklahoma has always had to play second fiddle to Texas, which has bigger cities that attract people, jobs & money. Until we landed the Oklahoma City Thunder NBA franchise we had always been a minor league state. If you wanted to see pro sports you had to drive to Dallas or Kansas City or St. Louis. As a kid growing up, everyone my age idolized Oklahoma’s own Mickey Mantle, the legendary center fielder for the Yankees. And yet no one I knew had ever gotten to see a big league game. We were convinced we lived in the middle of nowhere. It just felt like Oklahoma didn’t belong on the same stage as the big boys. We were always second best. Major corporations would locate their headquarters in the Dallas – Fort Worth metroplex and then if we were lucky we would get a small branch office in OKC or Tulsa. It’s not easy to live in the shadow of the largest state in the lower 48. It seemed like Oklahoma was a place that was easy for the rest of the nation to ignore.

Unfortunately, our history had contributed to an inaccurate portrait of the state. The dust bowl in the 30’s and the stereotyping of “Okies” painted a picture of poverty and a certain lack of sophistication. While it is true to this day that there is still plenty of dust and wind in Oklahoma, it is no less true that it has become a picturesque place in a pastoral kind of way. Out here on the Great Plains, the prairie seems to stretch out endlessly in all directions. On the other hand, it is precisely because of our location that we get to endure a seemingly endless string of tornadoes each year. The Storm Prediction Center of the National Weather Service is located in Norman with good reason. Storm chasers from all over the nation converge on our state each spring because they know that Oklahoma is in the bull’s eye of tornado alley. The wailing of sirens is something you grow up with around here. It is a part of life that you learn to accept just like the relentless 30 mph wind that strikes fear into the heart of any man with a comb over. Twisters, as they are referred to by the locals, are usually rated by old timers based on the year in which they occurred. “Yeah the twister last year was big, but it didn’t hold a candle to the one that took out Ponca City back in ‘55!”

So, all things considered, Oklahoma, in my mind, was not a place you wanted to go to - but rather a place you wanted to get away from.

However, my thinking changed completely on April 19, 1995.

It has been 17 years since the Oklahoma City bombing. 168 mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters were murdered that day. More than 680 were physically injured and many others suffered psychologically as entire families were ripped apart. Not even the most innocent were spared. 19 were slaughtered under the age of 6. On that day, nothing about you mattered. Your gender, your ethnicity and your age played no part in whether you lived or died. The insanity that exploded just outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building at 9:02 AM claimed its victims with utter randomness. Flying debris struck down one person while completely missing another. Walls collapsed in one office but remained standing in the next. The thin line between life and death could not have been finer. But for 168 human beings the end of their lives came with such shocking abruptness that is still difficult to understand. How could such heartbreaking carnage take place on sunny spring day in a quiet out-of-the-way place like Oklahoma.

As the scope of the disaster began to unfold, the entire nation started to grieve for a region that had too often been dismissed by me, and others, as a barren, insignificant part of the Southwest. Suddenly Oklahomans were no longer faceless caricatures stuck in the middle of the country. They were recognized for what they really were; fellow citizens who had suffered the most devastating kind of loss imaginable. It is one thing to lose loved ones because of circumstances that cannot be prevented, but to have them torn from your life needlessly, adds another dimension of pain and heartache.

For a few terrible days Oklahoma became the focal point of the country, and what the nation witnessed was the quiet courage, strength and dignity demonstrated by a region that most Americans had very little knowledge about. They watched with admiration as the people of this state came together as one. After all this time, it is still not unusual to meet someone who lost a family member, friend or co-worker in the tragedy. It is the defining moment in our state’s history, and although it is not something that is constantly discussed or dwelled on, it is ever-present in the fabric of our society. From time to time you come across unexpected memorials put up in various locations honoring those who were senselessly killed, and, of course, there is the Bombing Memorial itself.

When people visit our state, the Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum is one of the first sites they want to see. It draws people from all walks of life back to a tragic moment in time that united our nation in sorrow. It is a very special place filled with both pain and hope. It honors those who died as well as those who risked their own safety to rescue the injured. It shows the resilience of the people of Oklahoma and their ability to embrace the future without forgetting the past. But most importantly, the Memorial helps to replace statistics with 168 names and faces.

It was in those immediate days following the bombing that my opinion of Oklahoma changed forever. I finally realized that what really mattered about my home was the inspiring compassion of the people. Our differences no longer seemed relevant. In the span of a week I witnessed the horror of death and the courage of survival. I not only saw neighbors help neighbors I also watched people make amazing sacrifices for complete strangers. In the worst possible moment I saw the best of humanity. The people of Oklahoma demonstrated strength of character that rose above the cruel brutality that had shattered so many lives. I was proud of my state, and I knew that no matter where I might search I would never find better people.

Oklahoma is my home. It is where I went to school, raised a family and will probably retire. It is regrettable that it took such a tragedy to open my eyes to what was already all around me – but it was just one more lesson learned from that awful day.

It is important to remember April 19^th for exactly what it was.

It was a day when children waited for mothers and fathers who never came home.

When women shop, their eyes become twin beacons of intensity as they survey their surroundings for that ever elusive sale item that they just can’t live without. Meanwhile the man in her life follows along dutifully as his eyes slowly glaze over from the sheer boredom of endlessly purchasing items that are of no interest to him whatsoever. It is a pathetic sight to go to the mall and see women briskly on the move being trailed by a man listlessly shuffling along as he struggles to carry the many packages his sweetheart has carefully draped over every available limb.

Of course men are not completely innocent when it comes to the shopping experience. As any woman can tell you, a man has a tendency to wander off when he should be giving her his undivided attention. It is beyond her understanding how he can be anything less than fascinated by the subtle difference in the shades of colors of the various shoes she has been trying on for over an hour. Unfortunately, the average woman fails to realize just how little a man cares about her feet or what she decides to wear on them. When they do wander off, men tend to be drawn to the electronics department like a moth to a flame. A bigger TV with a more powerful sound system is so seductive that a normal male is incapable of resisting the lure of pixels and watts. Step into any large store and you will find the men lined up staring in rapture at gigantic TV screens blasting through multi-speaker systems that can destroy brain cells with a flick of a remote.

Of course the most commonly shared shopping trip is to the supermarket. What a delightful experience that can be. Nothing builds harmony in a relationship like pushing a cart while arguing over which breakfast cereal to buy. She wants something with less than a 125 calories per serving and lots of healthy fiber while he prefers all the sugar he can get and the chance to send the box top off for a cool prize that any 4-year-old would want. She patiently explains to him just how wrong he is, as usual, and that they are getting the low-calorie cereal and that if he wants to ruin his health and shorten his life he can dump as much sugar on that as he wants. At this point in the shopping trip the man stops to consider just how bad a shortened life would be.

After pouting for a brief time the man brightens considerably when they round the corner and come face to face with the meat counter. Except for the snack aisle filled with chips and other assorted worthless comfort food, the meat counter is his favorite spot in the store. Nothing makes a man happier than seeing huge slabs of animal flesh just waiting to be grilled to perfection as only he can do it. While the woman carefully considers some chicken, from which she will remove the skin to increase its healthiness, the man drools over the thought of sausage and spare ribs dripping with fat and grease. Later that night, over a thoroughly disgusting dinner of boiled skinless chicken and brussels sprouts, the woman will innocently ask why he has no appetite? The man will mumble something that would dissolve their blessed union if she was actually able to make out what he was saying, and then he will head for the kitchen to have a bowl of low-cal high fiber cereal drowned in sugar, poured from a box that does not contain a cool prize.

But of all the shopping horrors a grown man can be subjected to, there is nothing that delivers as much misery per square foot in the shopping experience as an antique store. Oh my God! Women literally swoon at the very thought of entering a dusty, smelly, creaky structure filled with dead people’s crap. Why? What is the point? Why do women obsess over buying the old junk of total strangers? Most of it is broken - or hasn’t worked in years – or is missing various parts and yet when a totally rational woman sets foot into one of these hell holes she reacts as if she has stepped onto the golden streets of heaven. Women have to understand that when a man makes a purchase he wants something brand new - preferably something powerful that runs on gasoline. He doesn’t care a thing about trying to find a gravy boat painted with little blue cherubs to match the fake china dishes that your great-great grandmother Myrtle brought over in a trunk from Lithuania in 1872. He doesn’t give a flying flip about expanding Aunt Gertie’s unique collection of ceramic moose figurines – the ones you will only purchase if the antlers are an exact match. He will never understand your all consuming passion for things that can not actually be put to some kind of use.

However, when it comes to shopping with a woman, the most important thing a man can learn, if he desires longevity, is that when it comes to clothing, his opinion is actually the last thing on earth she wants to hear. The response she is actually looking for is his confirmation of her opinion. But should he be foolish enough to actually give voice to his thoughts, the penalties can be severe. A grown man literally freezes in terror when a woman tries on a dress that is at least 2 sizes too small and then sweetly asks him if it makes her butt look big. In his mind he is thinking that “big” is not actually the right word. In that dress her butt could be the 51^st state or at least a territory – but shaking with fear he gulps and manages to squeak out, “it looks fine”. However, in his heart he knows that should she reach down to slip on her new shoes while wearing that dress the resulting explosion could kill them both.

I am one of those do-gooders who drones on and on about the sanctity of life. People get sick of hearing me whine about it. I believe that life should be respected and revered at all times and in every way – unless you are a spider in my home – in which case you are going to die. I know that spiders have the right to live, I know they are the glorious result of millions of years of evolution, and I know they play a necessary role in the eco system…blah blah blah…I don’t care. I still feel compelled to thin their population at every opportunity.

Spiders are scary. I was once with a relative at an air show. (The relative in question shall remain nameless to prevent any embarrassment to him and because my standing with that side of the family is already shaky at best.) As we were walking down a runway to look at some WWII planes we could see something moving in the distance on the concrete. As we got closer we realized it was a tarantula. I froze in mid-step – but my relative, who may or may not have been mentally unstable at the time, exclaimed, “I’m going to catch it!” He streaked off towards the tarantula that was slowly moving in the opposite direction. As my relative went running up to within about five feet of the enormous spider it suddenly turned and jumped straight at him. My relative, who instantly regained his awareness of reality, screamed in terror like a ten-year old girl and sprinted past me. He did not slow down until he was safely back in our car with the doors locked.

Of course most encounters with arachnids occur indoors. In my home the killing of spiders is a divided responsibility. If they are smaller than a quarter I make a weak and usually unsuccessful effort to terminate them. I mean, after all, I am the man of the house. If there are critters to be killed than it is my responsibility to do it. As the male of the species I am required by nature to protect our home against all invaders. Now it is important to understand that there are different killing techniques for different situations. If the spider is on the floor, my feeble attempt at eradication consists of tiptoeing around them and then, once I’m convinced they can’t see me coming, I sneak up from behind and stomp down with my size 10 shoe and all 190 pounds of my weight. However, because I usually have my eyes shut tight, (I don’t know why – I just can’t help it) I frequently miss the spider entirely. This usually produces a disgusted reaction from my wife along the lines of, “Oh my God! You are pathetic.” At which point she walks over, steps on the spider, picks up her victim in a paper towel and drops it in the trash.

This is always a humbling moment for me, so I try not to let my wife see that my hands are shaking. After 39 years of marriage I’m not sure why I keep trying to impress her with my bravery, but believe me it is a lost cause. But even worse than a spider on the floor, is one on the ceiling. I know with all my heart that spiders cannot wait for the chance to jump on me. And I know that they can see me coming, and they know full well what my intentions are. I would assume that the spider finds it quite irritating that I am going to try to end their life. The challenge is to get close enough to do some damage but not close enough that the spider can retaliate. That makes a tennis racket the weapon of choice. (When I gave up golf I sold my clubs so I can no longer whack them with a driver.)

My wife and I will be sitting quietly in the front room reading when she will casually look up and ask, “Is that a spider I see on the ceiling?” Of course upon hearing those words I scream, jump to my feet and take off running. This little ritual never gets old for my wife. She delights in seeing my panic as I leap over the dog and bolt out of the room. She knows that after a few seconds I will timidly stick my head around the corner and whisper, “Where is it?” She will stare at me with that look of hers that silently conveys the question, “Why did I ever marry this idiot?” but then she will smile weakly and say, “Honey, it’s on the dining room ceiling.” I follow the direction her finger is pointing, and I see the terrifying spot off in the distance. The thing is huge. It’s a least the size of a dime. I take a deep breath and boldly announce to my wife, “I’ll get my tennis racket.”

The ensuing battle should be captured on video. I run back and forth taking endless swats at the spider while screaming and covering my head, so that if I am lucky enough to even graze it, the thing won’t fall on me. This epic struggle can last for quite some time as my wife stands back with a mixture pity and resignation on her face. She personifies the stoic, long-suffering wife whose patience is tested again and again by the man she loves – that is until I take a big swing at the invader, (who, by the way, has not moved an inch since he is in no danger whatsoever) and I unfortunately smack the side of the china cabinet making one of her antique dishes fall over and break. Suddenly everything comes to a halt, and I realize that my life is now in far more danger than the spider’s. “All right that’s enough!” my wife growls. She has grown weary of the life or death struggle that has taken place far too close to her antiques. She rolls up a magazine, swats the spider and sweeps it into the dust pan. The entire episode takes 5 seconds.

Of course, there have been occasions when my wife was not around to save the day. I was driving home from work one afternoon on the turnpike going 70 mph. The sun was bright so I reached up and lowered the visor to shield my eyes. Incredibly, attached to the inside of the visor was a huge – and I mean huge - hairy, black and yellow spider. I let out a blood curtailing scream as my heart went into palpitations. This gigantic monster from hell was roughly 12 inches from my face. I was utterly trapped. I couldn’t move from the driver’s seat, and I was boxed in with cars on every side.

I sat frozen, hurtling down the turnpike, staring in horror at the creature as it stared back at me with all 8 eyes. (At that point it would have been interesting to have had a blood pressure cup available. I would be curious to know just how high the readings can go before you actually have the stroke.) I couldn’t help but think that it would’ve been so much better if this had happened on my way to play tennis so I would’ve had my racket with me. The seconds passed by like hours and after what seemed like a week, but was probably about 30 seconds, the spider decided to move. He lifted several hairy legs and repositioned himself. It felt like my heart was going to explode. Beads of perspiration trickled down my face as I watched him move ever so slowly down to the edge of the visor, and then…HE JUMPED.

It is an actual miracle that the breaking news that evening was not about a ten car pile up on the turnpike during rush hour. No witnesses were interviewed to explain how some moron lost control of his vehicle and jumped the median into oncoming traffic. No highway patrol officers or EMTs had to be called…and what makes this so miraculous is the fact that the giant black and yellow spider actually jumped into my lap. Please bear in mind that I have never been closer than a tennis racket to any spider of size and yet I now had one sitting on my crotch as I was navigating through traffic at a high rate of speed.

All of my life I have heard about the fight-or-flight response. At that point I experienced it. When under severe stress the nervous system is activated and the reaction is so quick that we do not actually have time to think. We simply act. Obviously flight was not an option, so my body chose to fight. Having no weapon at my disposal I unconsciously began to frantically slap myself in a very delicate area. I must say that I never foresaw an occasion where this would be something I would choose to do. But, as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. And should you ever drive past another motorist who is grimacing in pain as he hits himself in the crotch you can rest assured he is also experiencing a desperate time. I suppose the surprise nature of my attack caught the spider off guard because he finally succumbed to my repeated blows. However, he was not the only one to suffer. As any man can tell you, that particular part of the anatomy is not where you want to do battle with another living entity. Even if you win – you lose. Fortunately my wife and I had decided some years ago that we were through having children.

Ten minutes later I arrived home. Doubled up in severe pain and taking short shallow breaths, I gingerly stepped into the kitchen from the garage and came face to face with my lovely bride. “Tough day?” she quipped as I gritted my teeth in discomfort. I tried to respond, but I was hoarse from all the screaming. She smiled sweetly and said, “I have a chore for you.” She suddenly produced my tennis racket from behind her back. “There’s a big one in the bath tub, would you mind taking care of it?”

From the moment you step into the perfect climate controlled environment and come face to face with an elaborate fountain, wasting thousands of gallons of water, you are struck by everything that is wrong with our society. The artificial nature of this manmade world is designed around the need to induce average people to part with their money as quickly and as efficiently as possible. And, of course, we line up like mindless drones for the opportunity to do just that. Our entire form of capitalism is based on the fact that we spend before we think. Purchasing on impulse, whether we can afford it or not, helps drive our economy, providing jobs for more people who can then spend money they don’t actually have shopping for things they don’t really need. It is an endless cycle that props up the financial structure of the Western world.  

So …… you and your friend step into the mall and you are greeted by the sights, sounds and smells of temptation. You have told yourself you are going to make this a quick trip, you only need to get a couple of things, but before long other stores catch your eye and you find yourself going into all types of shops. Before you know it you’ve bought a handbag here and another pair of shoes there and some jewelry which you first thought you would give away as a gift, but now you might just keep for yourself. What was to be a 30 minute trip has now turned into 2 hours and you’ve gotten hungry. You and your friend debate whether to have a full meal at one of the nice restaurants or just grab something quick at the food court. It is a big decision that must be considered carefully since you are both on another of an endless series of diets, but you finally agree to just get some Chinese and Mexican at the court and share. You assure each other that your respective diets will resume tomorrow.  

3 short hours later the two of you can barely carry all the bags you have accumulated. What was to be a quick in and out for a few things has now turned into a full-scale shopping spree. You’ve each spent hundreds of dollars, consumed thousands of calories and your feet hurt. You dread walking out into the summer heat to try and find your car among the hundreds of other gas guzzling SUVs but it is the price you must pay for the pure enjoyment of going farther in debt, purchasing things that you’ll never use but that you are sure will add untold happiness to your life. Suddenly you and your friend can’t remember where you came in at. Was it by the high end clothing store or the gourmet ice cream shop? You decide it was the ice cream shop because you remember resisting the temptation to get a couple of scoops when you came in, but now your resolve has weakened, so although you are full, you both decide to stop in and have some dessert and rest your feet before you lug your packages all over the parking lot looking for your vehicle which you only owe 55 more payments on ……  

The mall is a wondrous place filled with overweight people waddling along burdened down by packages filled with virtually worthless items. Teenagers and young adults covered in tattoos and piercings hang out trying desperately to look cool and be noticed. Old men sit in chairs waiting for their wives to exhaust their energy and their checking accounts as they fume about the ball game they are missing on TV. Small children run wild screaming with excitement at all the possibilities that their parents are going to say “NO!” to. The employees of the expensive shops treat their customers with total disdain while minimum wage kids work the fast food counters with all the enthusiasm of someone facing a lumbar puncture. Mall cops try to look intimidating but thankfully do not carry lethal weapons. There are couples who are only there to catch an over priced movie that cost tens of millions of dollars to make, created by a series of corporate decisions that have stripped the film of any artistic value. And finally you have the poor who are simply looking for a place to escape the heat but who have no opportunity to join in on this spectacle of capitalism at its zenith.   

As we shop, spend and consume in the perfect setting of the mall, on the other side of the world it is a different story. One billion human beings struggle to stay alive on a dollar a day. Each year 10,950,000 of them lose that battle. More than 9,000,000 of those deaths are children, many under the age of five. They die from hunger and related causes, treatable illnesses and preventable diseases…but in actuality they die from the neglect of the other five billion people on earth. We have made the collective decision that we would rather eat expensive food at the mall than to save a child from hunger. We prefer to buy more shoes instead of paying for vaccines that could save countless lives. We feel the need to purchase the latest phones and computers even though that money could dig wells and provide safe water for families. We do our hair, our nails and get tans because it is more important that we look good than for a mother to have medical care so that she can survive the delivery of her baby.   

There is a certain sadness that hangs over the mall. People come filled with excitement and anticipation but leave with a feeling of remorse over their complete lack of self-control. Every visit is the same. They come searching for something meaningful but they leave disappointed. Why is this? Perhaps it is because each one of us knows that happiness can’t be found with the swipe of a piece of plastic. We know that there is more to life than piling up as many possessions as we possibly can. We realize that we are chasing a dream that can’t be fulfilled. No matter how much we spend, it cannot replace the need to connect with other people. We are each aware of the terrible poverty that afflicts humanity but too many of us deal with this unpleasant truth by turning away and ignoring it. None of us wants innocent children to have to live and die in squalor and filth. That is why we go to a place like the mall in order to escape from the reality of life, if only for a short time. For a few hours we see the world the way we wish it was, but we know it is only an illusion, and the sadness that descends upon us as we leave and go back to our real lives leaves us feeling empty and disheartened.  

WE CANNOT SPEND OURSELVES INTO PERMANENT HAPPINESS WHEN WE KNOW HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF HUMAN BEINGS HAVE NOTHING.

They had no way of realizing that from that moment on, everything would change. For the rest of their lives they would be viewed as the couple with the “disabled child”. This limiting point of view would, unfortunately, define them as human beings. Their beautiful daughter would at various times be referred to as “not normal” – “low functioning” and “retarded”. Even those with good intentions, those who were entrusted with helping her achieve her potential, would insist on classifying Emma with a litany of academic and medical terms. John and Sara Robertson were about to enter a world of labels that too often looked past the humanity of their little girl. 

The day Emma was born, all of the fear and trepidation about their decision faded away. As they picked up their tiny daughter for the first time they knew they had made the right decision. They counted her fingers and toes, they tickled her, they made funny faces at her, they softly said her name over and over again – and they held her as tightly as they dared. She was their beautiful child and no one would ever be able to take that away from them. No matter what the future held they would face it knowing that they had given life to a precious little girl who they would love forever. They had made a life changing decision that they would never regret. 

The challenges they faced as a family were formidable. They already had a daughter, Isabella, who was two years older than Emma. They did everything they could to assure her that they loved her completely and that she was not forgotten as they devoted most of their time, out of necessity, to their newborn. From the beginning it seemed like everything was significantly more difficult for Emma than it had been for her sister. Virtually every milestone was delayed, but with patience and determination they slowly conquered each obstacle. Although each step forward was a struggle, it only made the hard won victories seem even more satisfying. Slowly they began to realize that Emma was going to be able to have a full, enriching life – no matter what others thought or said. 

Eighteen months after the birth of their second daughter, the Robertson’s added one final addition to their family. Sara delivered a healthy baby boy named Dylan. At this point the Robertsons knew their family was complete – they also knew they had their hands full! Their home often seemed to border on chaos but every necessary thing was accomplished in the nick of time. Laundry was done and meals were prepared. Baths were taken and appointments kept. The entire household operated on a comical mixture of panic and profound love. Of course there were times when the vacuum didn’t get run or someone forgot to walk the dog, but overall the five members of the Robertson family enjoyed the life they were sharing. They loved and appreciated each other, so the fact that one of their children had an extra chromosome was not something they focused on under their roof. She was just Emma – a little girl who loved the family cat and enjoyed playing dress-up. Each sunrise brought another day filled with exhausting adventure, but they couldn’t imagine their lives in any other way. 

John and Sara now understood that when they were told that their baby could have Down syndrome they had focused almost entirely on all the possible problems and the negative stereotypes that even the medical community still embraced. At the time they had not been able to look beyond the diagnoses and see the tiny person they would grow to love more than they believed was possible. They had no way of knowing how their child, in her innocence, would change them into caring, compassionate people who now saw life completely differently. The things they had once believed were so important had become meaningless. They were no longer preoccupied with status or material things. They didn’t care if others refused to understand and accept all of their children equally. They had learned not to automatically accept the opinions of “experts” regarding what their middle child could or could not accomplish. Instead they were focused on raising their family and fighting for Emma’s right to have the same opportunities in life as the brother and sister who adored her.     

Isabella and Dylan loved Emma unconditionally. As they grew older they both felt protective of her, and they faced down anyone who dared to tease her or make a cruel remark. They were proud of her, and they refused to let anyone hurt her. They doted on her and they shared the joy of her accomplishments because they knew how much effort they required. She was not only a sister they loved, she was also someone they came to admire because she was bravely facing obstacles that they did not had to endure. They were spared the physical therapy, speech therapy and seemingly endless medical procedures that were so much a part of Emma’s life. At times they felt guilty because their lives seemed so much easier than hers.  

Sarah had been nervous when Emma started her education. It was a huge step and she did not want her daughter to feel inferior or to become frustrated if she struggled. At first Emma was shy and felt out of place in the class room but before too long her true personality came out, and she gained acceptance and made friends. For Sarah it was surprising how quiet the house was with both of her daughters in school. She had extra hours in her day for the first time in years. It slowly dawned on her just how tiring it had been with three little ones underfoot, but she didn’t regret a single minute of the time she had spent with her children. They were the most important thing in her life, and she had done everything in her power to see that they were happy and healthy. 

Emma was petite, which made her appear younger than she really was, but as she grew older she became a person who, in her own way, quietly changed the world around her. She had a positive affect on people’s attitudes and their preconceived notions of what individuals with disabilities were like – and she reduced their tendency to think of those with intellectual challenges as less than equal human beings. Despite her small size, when people got to know her they fell in love with a girl whose smile and laughter was infectious. Without trying at all, Emma seemed to have a life affirming effect on everyone she met. 

During her teenage years she attempted many things – some of them she did well, others she struggled with – but she kept trying. Each endeavor she undertook gave her more confidence and new skills. One activity she particularly enjoyed was her participation in Special Olympics. She had always excelled at swimming, and over the years she had won a large number of medals, so her Dad built a beautiful display case to show them off. Emma made sure that every visitor to the Robertson’s home did not leave without being given the opportunity to admire her medals…She also loved to sing. She had grown up singing anywhere and all the time, despite the pleadings of her siblings. It seemed completely natural when she was invited to join a choir made up specifically of individuals with special needs who never performed without touching the hearts of everyone that heard them.

By the time she turned 21 Emma had accomplished far more than anyone ever expected. She had finished her education, she had a job at a local retailer and she was preparing to move into her own apartment so she could live independently. But as proud as she was of those achievements there was soon to be a day of importance that stood out above all the rest. Throughout her life she had emulated Isabella. She copied everything she did. She dressed like her sister. She fixed her hair like her sister’s. She liked the same music and TV shows as her sister and she even tried to like the same foods as her sister, although she finally drew the line at sweet potatoes. She idolized everything about her big sister – so when Isabella came home one evening with her longtime boyfriend, Brandon and surprised everyone with an engagement ring Emma could not contain her joy. It was the happiest she had ever felt in her life. She was crying for joy and she couldn’t help it. The two sisters hugged each other and danced around the room. Emma did not think she could possibly be any happier than she was at that moment – and then Isabella whispered in her ear that she wanted her to be her maid of honor. 

Emma’s feet didn’t touch the ground for a week. Her absolute joy spread to everyone she came in contact with. Her friends, her co-workers and even the customers she helped, all joined in her absolute delight to get to play such an important role in her sister’s wedding. The sight of her happiness made everyone else happy. It was impossible not to get caught up in her jubilation. As the day for the wedding grew near, the anticipation made Emma nervous, but Isabella reassured her that everything would be fine. They had had picked out their dresses, and everyone was stunned by how beautiful Emma looked in hers. The first time her parents saw her wearing it her father tried to fight back the tears but he could not. John and Sara could hardly believe that the beautiful person they saw before them was the same fragile infant they had held in their arms all those years ago when they were both so scared and unsure about what the future held for her……  

……But it must be remembered that the story you’ve just read about Emma’s life was only one of TWO possible futures – and tragically it was NOT the future that was chosen 22 years before. 

The day of Isabella’s wedding finally arrived, but Emma was not a part of it. She could not be the maid of honor because in 1990 – confused and distraught by the unexpected news that their baby would be born with a disability – a young couple named John and Sara Robertson actually made the decision to terminate the pregnancy. Emma was never born. She was not to be a part of their lives. They never saw her face, or held her in their arms. They never saw her smile and they never heard her laughter. None of the beautiful moments that would have resulted from Emma’s kindness and gentleness ever occurred. None of the joy she could have brought to so many was allowed to happen. Her love was lost to the world. The hundreds of lives she would have touched were left unaffected. Isabella and Dylan never knew their beautiful sister.

The decision to end a human life does not affect just one, two or three people. It changes the entire course of “what might have been” and therefore has a lasting effect on countless individuals. How many babies like Emma are never given a chance to be born simply because of a diagnoses? How can we play God by picking and choosing who lives and dies? The decision to terminate a pregnancy because of Down syndrome does not mean that you are disposing of something that has no value or doesn’t matter. It means that you are taking away the life of a human being – a person who has so much to offer and who, in their own way, can have a profound influence on the world. 

When a baby like Emma is not allowed to be born it is humanity’s loss. 

Our daughter is married with a family of her own so it is just me and my wife now; however, we share our home with an unbelievably cute little dog named Maggie – and the cat. Three of us are very happy with this arrangement; however, the cat is the exception. She really has no use for the rest of us. We are simply there to do her bidding – no matter what time of day or night that might be. It seems that our entire lives are built around the completely selfish demands of the cat. Even our yard has been compromised so that she has an area where she can go outside and terrorize small birds, mice and an occasional baby snake. She loves being outside, and she will cry for hours to be let out so that she can kill and maim as much of the animal kingdom as she can reach.

The cat is fat. I mean fat in the sense that her belly is so big it sways back and forth when she tries to run. My wife leaves food down for her 24/7. I should be so lucky. If I’m hungry all I hear is, “Don’t eat that now you’ll spoil your dinner!” In fact, everything about the cat’s life is better than mine. The cat is asleep when I leave for work and asleep in the same spot when I return home. She never has a stressful day. The cat does absolutely nothing to earn her keep. The food just miraculously appears to fill her ever growing stomach. My wife strokes her while she tells her how much she loves her and what a good kitty she is. She is given annoying toys to amuse herself with, and she is allowed to sleep in places that I would be killed for going near. “Stay away from Grandma‘s curio cabinet, you’ll scratch it!” I don’t even know what a curio cabinet is, (I think it’s the hideous thing over in the corner) and I certainly have no interest in going near one, but being regaled with such helpful reminders is all a part of married life.

It is difficult to convey how deeply my wife loves the cat. Let me just say that if the cat and I were both in the street and my wife was heading our direction in a car – and she had to swerve to miss one of us – I would be eating a bumper. But, thankfully, I would be able to rest easy knowing that the cat was safe while they gave me blood transfusions in a desperate attempt to keep another hit and run victim alive. At all times the cat is the prime consideration of our lives. Our schedule is set so that the obese terror of the back yard is always happy. We can only take short overnight trips so that we can rush home and care for the cat. (Personally I don’t think she cares whether we are there or not. As long as there is food, water and a curio cabinet to sleep on for 22 hours a day she’s content.) Every aspect of our lives is considered within the context of how it affects the cat.

My wife is a quilter. It is her passion, and she has an amazing ability to create beautiful quilts that are so intricate and complicated that I can‘t even begin to understand how she does it. That being said, I learned many years ago not to sit down next to her on the couch when she is quilting because, invariable, I would sit down on something warm and squishy that would screech loud enough to stop your heart and then shoot across the room in a blur. The cat loves to sleep under the quilts as my wife is working on them. After several near episodes of cardiac arrest and being told, “Not to hurt the kitty” I learned to sit safely in a torturous pain inducing chair across the room so that the cat would be safe and comfortable at all times.

Which brings me to the dryer. One weekend I was helping out with the laundry. It is something I do to ease the workload for my wife and to keep from hearing the ever growing list of my failures as a spouse. She had washed one of the quilts she had finished. I took it out of the washer and put it into the dryer, however I wasn’t sure what setting to use. She had spent months on this quilt, and I didn’t want to be the one to shrink it down to the size of a handkerchief. I left the door open for about 10 seconds while I stuck my head around the corner and asked my wife about the appropriate setting. In that brief interval of time the cat jumped into the dryer. I received the necessary instructions regarding the settings, along with a useful reminder to be careful because, “you know how you are” – and of course I do know. After 39 years of marriage it is well documented how I am. Anyway, I turned around, closed the door, hit the start button and stepped over to the washer to do another load.

After a couple of seconds I heard an odd thumping noise coming from inside the dryer. I started to check to see what it was but then I realized it was probably a pair of my wife’s sneakers that she had thrown in there. I turned back to the washer. After another 10 or 15 seconds of solid thumping I suddenly heard a faint sound that made my blood run cold. I froze in panic as I distinctly heard a tiny “meow”. I didn’t want to believe it. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe because I realized my life was about to come to an unfortunate conclusion. As I spun around and opened the dryer door I heard my wife sprinting down the hallway towards the laundry room. How could she have possibly heard such a faint muffled sound? It didn’t matter. She burst in just as I reached for the cat.

At this point it is impossible to relate exactly what happened during the unpleasant minutes that followed. The fact was firmly stated that I had purposely tried to kill the cat. (Not true. Although that was a fantasy I frequently entertained, using the dryer would not have been my method of choice.) It was claimed that the cat was irreparably harmed and would never be the same. (Not true. The brief ride in the dryer did not have any discernible effect on her appetite or on her ability to sleep anywhere at any time. These are important facts because those are her two chief activities.) And it was pointed out to me, in no uncertain terms, that I was a careless, thoughtless monster. (Perhaps this is true, but since I’d heard that colorful phrase many times before it was beginning to lose a lot of its sting.) The important thing to understand is that the cat was fine. My life had been in far more danger than hers. While it is true that, when placed on the floor, she staggered around for a minute like a drunken sailor on shore leave, the cat soon recovered her equilibrium and headed straight for the curio cabinet. On the plus side, she did come out of the dryer warm and fluffy.

So…in my house we have reached a truce. I’m not going anywhere and, unfortunately, neither is the cat. With that in mind, she and I have agreed to cohabitate while we conveniently ignore the existence of the other. This is an arrangement that, of course, favors the cat. I work hard all week to earn money to buy cat food that she can stuff into her swelling belly during those brief moments when she awakens from her lifelong slumber induced coma. I sit in painfully uncomfortable chairs while she snuggles up on the couch under a warm quilt. And I am a prisoner that can never leave home for more than 36 hours for fear that the cat will become lonely and desire human companionship. To say that I can barely tolerate sharing the same roof with the cat is quite an understatement – and I didn’t even mention the horror of the litter box……

WHEN A HUMAN LIFE IS LOST, SO IS ALL THE POTENTIAL GOOD THAT PERSON MIGHT HAVE PRODUCED.

10,950,000 people die each year from extreme poverty. It is such a large number that we have difficulty comprehending it. However, when you are talking about almost eleven million deaths it is critically important to remember that each one of these individuals was a human being just like you and me. The number needs to be personalized for the true loss of humanity to sink in. The people who die each year from extreme poverty are not nameless, faceless statistics. They are flesh and blood. Each man, woman or child who dies from needless starvation, or a preventable illness or a curable disease is an equal member of the human family. All of these individuals could have had a positive affect on countless others, but they were denied the opportunity to make their contributions, and the world is a lesser place because of it.

What if you had died before the age of five from a totally preventable cause? How would the world be different without you? Your children would not exist nor would their accomplishments. Any good thing you might have done would not have happened. All the people’s lives you could have touched would be unaffected. When an individual dies from extreme poverty it is, of course, impossible to know what they might have done with their life, what they could have contributed or what their children could have grown up to be. How do we know that the child who starved to death last night wasn’t destined to become a great world leader like Gandhi or Nelson Mandela. Perhaps yesterday morning malaria claimed the life of a future Nobel Laureate. Maybe tomorrow the person will die from unsafe drinking water who would have become a research scientist, instrumental in finding a cure for one the world’s fatal diseases.

Any of these people might have contributed in some great way to humanity, but they will never have the chance. The overall good that this many people could have produced in the world is incalculable. That is why the horror of an extreme poverty death is three fold. It is not just the obvious immediate loss for those who loved the deceased, it is also the world’s loss because we are denied the opportunity to benefit from the victim’s abilities, personality and love. And each death diminishes those of us who could have helped save that life and didn’t. Whether through ignorance, apathy or selfishness we each contributed to the 10,950,000 deaths last year.

It is indefensible that we choose not to take action and try to prevent the deaths of innocent people. In the West, a violent criminal is given food, clothing and shelter while 25,000 children, on the other side of the world, are allowed to die needlessly each day. These children have hurt no one. They are not a threat to anyone. They are totally without blame, but we choose to feed, clothe and house the criminal and allow the children to die. How can this be justified? Where is the logic in protecting someone who rapes and kills while at the same time being perfectly willing to let a five year old child starve to death?

Because there are one billion people struggling in extreme poverty, individuals sometimes feel overwhelmed by the size of the problem. They wonder if the small amount of help they can give can really make any difference. But what if your financial contributions helped to save just one life, how important is it? Perhaps the one child you save will eventually grow up to be a doctor, who spends her life saving even more people. Your effort is then multiplied many times over. On the other hand, what if you lived in poverty and the one life that was saved was yours? It would be the most important thing in the world. The people who are dying in extreme poverty feel the same way. They believe that their life matters, and that they deserve the chance to live. EVERY LIFE THAT IS SAVED IS IMPORTANT.

There may well come a day when you will need someone to save your life. Perhaps a paramedic or an emergency room doctor or just a person who happens to know CPR will help you at a critical moment. As you are staring death in the face you will believe, with all your being, that your life is worth saving. Or you may have a son or daughter who is severely injured or becomes gravely ill, you will certainly demand that everything possible be done to save your child’s life. We all believe that we and our loved ones deserve to live. Is this not true for the people trapped in extreme poverty as well? They are just like us. They are equal human beings whose lives are worth saving, just as much as yours or mine.

Please consider the 25,000 children that will needlessly die TODAY without our help. What is more important for us to spend our time, money and resources on than saving these innocent victims? The children that die today will leave this world without having the chance to make a difference. With each death there is a life that was not lived, dreams that were never realized and hopes that were crushed before they could be fulfilled. We will never know the peace, courage, love and joy these small victims could have given to the world over their lifetimes. When we do not make the effort to save the lives of those in extreme poverty we are depriving the world of the talents and abilities of millions of human beings.

WHEN WE LET CHILDREN DIE WE ARE KILLING THE FUTURE.

An individual with a developmental disability is a person too.

They also have a role to play in life. They laugh and they cry, they feel joy and pain, and they have hopes and dreams. They are optimistic and confident as they make plans and achieve goals. They rise up to face challenges, and they are rightfully proud of their accomplishments. They long to be as independent as possible, and they want to be accepted for who they are. They want to be considered as equal human beings who deserve the same respect and dignity as anyone else – which means they want the opportunity to just be themselves. They want the chance to participate in society. They want to love and be loved. They do not want to be unfairly defined by a single label. 

When you find out that someone is intellectually challenged how does it change your perception of that person?

Do you treat them differently?

Do you feel uneasy around them?

Do you feel sympathy for them?

Do you avoid them? 

Do you feel superior to them?

Do you want to help them?

If you focus entirely on this single aspect of their humanity you are missing the complete person who has so much to offer the world. We must open our hearts and our minds to the reality of what makes us human. An IQ score is not the determining factor in our value to society. We must look past the labels that are used to unfairly limit the potential of a person. There are now 7 billion human beings on earth, and 3% are “defined” as intellectually challenged. That means that millions of people all over the world carry a descriptive stigma that haunts them for all of their lives. No one should have to carry a burden that is forced on them by others.

Just because an individual may be non-verbal doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a lot to say – we just have to find new ways of communicating. When an individual cannot count to ten, it doesn’t mean she can’t hold a job – we just need to make the necessary adjustments that allow her to work without the pressures of math. If an individual has difficulty understanding proper hygiene it is not a reason for him to be ridiculed – instead we need to work with him to improve his living skills so he can avoid unnecessary illness. Whatever particular challenge a person faces we can find workable solutions that will help them to thrive and be a part of the community. Every person deserves our best effort to include them in all areas of society.

For the world to ever be a fair and just place, all life must be equally valued. There can be no exceptions to this truth. Every human being, no matter what their physical or mental capacity may be, has the right to pursue happiness, good health and purposeful meaning in their lives. In order for this to occur we must become better people ourselves. We must grow in our acceptance of those who may, on the surface, seem different. We must learn to overcome our preconceived notions about how much a disability should be allowed to define a person, and ultimately we must have compassion for all human beings.

It is true for all of us that life can be difficult under the best of circumstances. It should not be made more demanding because of the narrow minded opinions of others. Individuals who happen to be intellectually challenged are more than just a diagnosis. They are real people living real lives. It is up to each one of us to look past the disability and accept the person inside. If we will do this, the entire world will change. Certainly those that have suffered so long from neglect, abuse and intolerance will enjoy a dramatic improvement in their lives, but it will also have a positive affect on the rest of us. Nothing but good can come from treating everyone with consideration and appreciation. All of humanity will benefit if we learn to accept every individual as the completely unique and special person they are.

Everyone agreed that they were made for each other. They were considered to be the perfect couple. They would finish each other’s sentences. They liked the same food, the same movies and they both loved to dance. They started building a world together that they knew they wanted to share for the rest of their lives. They had talked often about having children, and they were happy to discover that they both wanted a big family. They decided after a year of marriage to go ahead and see if they could have a child. Within a few months they got the good news. Maggie and Lawrence could not have been happier. They decided that if it was a boy they would call him William, and if it was a girl she would be Lisa.

The pregnancy was uneventful, and in the early morning hours of March 7, 1955 Maggie went into labor. At first everything seemed fine, but as the hours dragged on the situation deteriorated. During delivery it was discovered that the umbilical cord was wrapped around William’s neck causing him to suffer from severe oxygen deprivation. It seemed to take forever for the nurse to bring their baby to them and when she finally did she told them that the doctor would be in soon to talk to them about “the problem”. Maggie and Lawrence were scared, but they couldn’t help falling in love with the precious little boy that had been handed to them. In their eyes he was beautiful. His tiny fingers and toes were perfect. He had lots of dark hair and his wrinkled face made them laugh. They had a beautiful son and now they were truly a family.

When the doctor walked in, Lawrence tried to read the expression on his face, but it was emotionless. Maggie sensed that she was about to hear something awful, and she held on tightly to William. The doctor simply said, “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but your child is going to be severely retarded”. Lawrence flinched and turned to look at Maggie. She was staring at the doctor with a cold hard stare of determination. “I don’t care what you say, our son is beautiful.” The doctor looked at the chart in his hands and began to speak in a way that made it clear that he had given this response many times before. “Yes, he looks fine, but he was without oxygen and his brain has been damaged. I think the effect will be profound. I do not anticipate him ever having anything close to a normal life. He probably won’t speak and he may never walk. He will be a burden to both of you for however long he lives.” The doctor paused and cleared his throat. “I would not try to raise him yourselves. There are institutions were he can be placed that are especially designed to help his kind. Of course the choice is up to you, but in my professional opinion you would be better off letting him live out his life among others who are retarded so that you can live your own lives.”

The rage that began to build inside of Lawrence made him tremble. In a voice he was barely able to control he said, “Get out.” The doctor shrugged, “It is your life, but don’t be guided by your emotions. Try to think logically because…” Lawrence cut him off, “I said get out!” The doctor nodded and quickly stepped out into the hallway. For a moment the room was filled with stunned silence. Maggie and Lawrence were both trying to absorb the shock of the doctor’s words. Finally Maggie firmly said, “I am not giving up our baby. Please tell me you feel the same way.” Lawrence began to sense the crushing pressure that someone experiences when their world has been torn apart. “Of course I want to keep him with us, but what if the doctor is right? What if it is more than we can handle? What if there are other medical complications?” Lawrence hesitated, “What if – I’m not a good enough father?” Tears began to stream down Maggie’s face. “Lawrence, you are the kindest, most thoughtful, most considerate man I’ve ever met. You will be an amazing father. We will handle this together, and we will take each day as it comes. As long as we love each other we will find the strength to do what is needed to give William the best life he can possibly have.” In the midst of all the confusion and disappointment he was feeling, Lawrence was suddenly overwhelmed by how fortunate he was to have found Maggie in this life.

In the 1950’s the decision to place a child who was developmentally disabled in an institution was made by many couples because they innocently thought it was actually the best choice. In those days people tended to take a doctor’s opinion as gospel. It didn’t even occur to them that they could be getting bad advice. They just assumed that the medical profession knew what they were talking about – but it didn’t work that way for Lawrence and Maggie. It was not an option they could even consider. In their minds they had created a human life, and he was their responsibility. He was not going to be passed along for someone else to raise. He was not going to be considered a lifelong burden. He was not going to be hidden away and forgotten about. Instead he was going to be loved. He was going to be their son.

In the following years Maggie tried three more times to have another baby, but each pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. William would be their only child. Over the next five decades Lawrence and Maggie experienced the highs and the lows of raising a child with a disability. But no matter what life threw at them, they had each other. They weathered every storm together. They savored the victories that occurred in William’s life and they held onto each other during the struggles. As he matured, William developed at his own pace. It took a while but he eventually became quite a talker with an opinion on everything. And he not only learned to walk he was active in Special Olympics. He eventually received an education and held various jobs; however, he always chose to live with his parents. William had no desire to live independently. At home he knew he was loved, he was cared for and he was protected. The thought of not seeming his mom and dad each day made him feel bad.

When it came to thinking about the future it always centered on William. Every so often Maggie would bring up the delicate subject of what would happen to William when they could no longer care for him – but Lawrence always hated talking about it. It was just too painful to think about. Although he knew it was part of his responsibility as a parent to provide for his son after their deaths, he always put off making a decision. In his heart Lawrence had always hoped that he would die first so that way he would never have to live without Maggie. He knew it was selfish, but he was convinced that it would be better for William to be with his mother. Lawrence knew that after he was gone Maggie would do the right thing concerning their son.

As the years went by and Lawrence and Maggie looked back on their lives, they knew they had made the right decision for them and their son. If William had been institutionalized they would have missed so much joy and so much adventure. Every day had been a challenge, but each day also had its own reward. Lawrence and Maggie shared a bond that few married couples got to experience. They had committed their lives to each other while making tremendous sacrifices so that their son could live the best life possible and have the opportunity to become the person they knew he could be. Maggie and Lawrence found strength in each other, and their love had never wavered.

They had known from the beginning that they wanted to grow old together – and so they did. In their retirement years they were able to spend even more time together. They doted on each other and generally acted like two school kids in love instead of a couple in their early 80’s. Of course time had taken its inevitable toll. They were somewhat frail and they both had their share of health scares, but overall life was good – and from time to time Lawrence still delighted Maggie by sweeping her up in his arms and slowly dancing with her.

But finally their journey together began to slowly come to an end, and one afternoon the dancing stopped forever. Lawrence had gone to pick up William at the end of his work day. Maggie had worried that her husband was getting too old to drive, but he just didn’t feel comfortable when his son rode the bus. They walked into the living room and Maggie stared at them blankly. Lawrence rushed to her asking, “Honey, what’s wrong?” but she didn’t respond. Her eyes did not focus on him – she didn’t seem to be aware of anything. Terrified, Lawrence rushed her to the emergency room. For the next five days Maggie underwent a battery of tests and finally the stage four brain tumor was discovered. 

It only took eight weeks for the cancer to claim Maggie’s life. Every effort was made to keep her as pain free as possible. During those two months she moved back and forth between being completely lucid and then having her mind enveloped by the darkness of the tumor. During the periods when she was able to recognize her loved ones she and Lawrence would reminisce, focusing on the many good times in their lives – and they finally made a decision about William. It was decided that once Lawrence could no longer care for him, their son would move in with Maggie’s youngest sister and her husband, both of whom adored William. As Maggie’s memory began to fade they both knew the end was near, and they didn’t want to waste a single precious second they had left with each other. They laughed and they cried as they revisited the moments that had defined their lives together. They each expressed their admiration for the other, and they both made sure they conveyed the depth of their love and devotion.

When Maggie’s final hour arrived Lawrence and William were at her side. As she slipped in and out of consciousness they quietly stroked her hair and held her hand. She could no longer speak, but she seemed to know they were with her. Thankfully she was not in pain. As her breathing slowed the nurse told them it wouldn’t be long. William could not hold back his tears as he said goodbye to his mother for the last time. It broke his heart to think she was actually dying, and it was difficult for him to believe that his mother was really leaving them for good. His parents had been inseparable, but now that was coming to an end. His father’s grief was painful to watch. The man who had seemed so strong all of his life now seemed broken. Thoughtfully, other family members led William out of the room so that he wouldn’t see the very end. Lawrence was left alone with Maggie. His worst nightmare had come true. She was going to leave him, and he was powerless to do anything about it. He sat and looked at her face thinking about the first time he saw her step off the bus six decades before. To him she still looked just as beautiful as she did that day. He wondered how the years had gotten away from them, but now he knew they were out of time. As he softly sobbed, Lawrence gently hugged her and leaning down to her ear he whispered “I love you, Maggie. We will be together forever.”

A few moments later it was over. For eighty-one years Maggie had led a courageous life. She had been a wonderful wife, a loving mother and a passionate advocate for her son and others with intellectual challenges. Even in death she had been brave. There are different criteria that can be used to judge a human life but perhaps the best way is to simply consider whether the world is a better place because a person lived. For Maggie Curtis the answer was an overwhelming yes. The world was a profoundly better place because she had made the relentless effort to support her son against all odds during his lifetime, and she had been the perfect partner to Lawrence, the man she adored with all her heart. Together they had spent their lives showing the world what love and commitment really meant.