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Somewhere in the bible, and I think it is in more than one place, God refers to someone, saying that he knew them before they were born. He knew what kind of person they would be, He knew who they were at the instant of creation and even before, He knew who they were, and every facet of their life, before it unfolded, before it began. We do not have that advantage, but we do have the unparalleled joy of waiting once a life has begun. We put all of our dreams and hopes into that tiny traveler before they have even arrived. We wonder if it is a boy or a girl, we ponder names, we think about what is important to teach that child, and what we expect them to be and to do. We dream about the life that we have not yet seen, and we know that our lives will change in miraculous ways, and forever.

Once that tiny life has begun, it speeds towards the big reveal. Nine months seems forever, and it seems but an instant once it has ended. Two years ago at this time, I remember walking around in a fog. I was exhausted and deliriously happy. My son-in-law had called me very early in the morning to say that the newest angel had arrived, and he and his mother were both resting. I got all the facts, of course. He was so many inches long, he weighed x number of pounds, and he was beautiful and perfect. Of course he was, all babies are, and since he was my daughter’s baby, he was that much more perfect than most other babies. I was excited and overjoyed to have another grandson, and I could barely wait to see him in all his small sweet perfection. I met him ten days later, on the evening before Valentine’s Day. He was small and beautiful and perfect, and I could think of nothing more than how precious and perfect that small man was.

As a grandmother, I had no thoughts of practical things, but only of the indescribable joy of looking at him and holding him, and breathing in that perfect, soft, and indescribable baby smell. He seemed to be awake more than he was asleep, and all the better to hold him. When he was nestled in my arms, I dreamed of days yet to unfold, and adventures we would share together. Even in his sleep, he was active, and traveled around invisible worlds in his crib, and staked his claim on lands and places unknown to anyone else. More than anything, he loved being held and snuggled, and the safe haven he found with those he loved would last a lifetime.

Time has a curious habit of progressing when we aren’t looking, and since we are all busy living, time progresses rapidly. Not everyone would understand metaphysical ideas, but Jack would. He is completely engaged in his world, but one look at his face and eyes, and you know he sees past what is, to what will be. There is something in all babies that allows them to have a staggering trust in tomorrow, and the innate ability to see things the rest of us have forgotten. When babies and children seem wise beyond their years, we say they have an old soul. With Jack, it is the happy fusion of an old soul with a newly found and engaging sensibility. If I had to use one word to describe him, and I wouldn’t like being limited to one word, I would probably use sensibility. He knows and understands his world with one swift piercing glance, and he smiles with delight. The world truly is his, and each day is made for him, and him alone. Not that he is selfish with those days. He likes nothing better than to share it with those he loves, who love him in return.

Jack is one of those people that everyone falls in love with, when they meet him. How could they not love someone who is so perfect and so blessedly unaware of it? How could anyone not love someone so perfectly willing to love them and share their world, and vice versa? Recently I was privileged to spend a week with him. He doesn’t walk so much as he runs headlong through his house and through life. He is like a lightening bolt encased in one small and perfect package. He is always on and always ready to go and see the delights that life has to offer. He is always willing and ready to share everything with anyone who is lucky enough to come into his small and energetic orbit. If you look closely enough, you can almost see the beating of tiny wings on his feet, helping to propel him through a wonderful and quickly paced life.

He grabs an adult finger in his small hand and dances in place until that adult stands up and allows him or her self to be taken to where Jack is going. Jack is going everywhere, seemingly at once, and he has insatiable curiosity that needs to be satisfied. A closed door is an exciting and enticing challenge to him. You know, and he knows quite well, that behind the door, is his parent’s bedroom. And on one level he knows that without equivocation, but on another level, he also knows that it may have been magically changed overnight to who knows who kind of delightful place?! It isn’t the destination, it’s the journey, and he is a child who travels light and and who is always looking forward to tomorrow and what might have happened when he was looking the other way. He wouldn’t begrudge it happening while he was looking the other way, but he would wistfully wonder and sigh over why life is so maddeningly indifferent to doing what he wants it to do, when he wants it to. Then that moment would pass and he would smile and race to meet it head on yet again.

Nearly every day of my stay we explored the hidden kingdoms that lay behind bedroom and bathroom doors. He always reacted the same way. It was the same, but tantalizingly different, because he was tour guide to a nice older woman who had no idea, he thought, of what lay there. It was impossible not to be infected by his energetic enthusiasm and delighted smiles. He opened every door and looked in every closet and every bathroom, and was always satisfied, yet suspicious at the same time. He knew there was magic in the air, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He just knew, and that was enough, but not quite, so that the next day it must be done again. And again. Lewis and Clark, Magellan, Columbus must all have started the same way. But I am sure they weren’t half so engaging or as intrepid as my small affable explorer whose excitement could barely be contained.

I could tell you that he walks and has amazing conversations. Vexingly, I didn’t understand half of what he said, but he soldiered on with great enthusiasm and spoke to me in fascinating paragraphs, of what he saw. But even knowing that he has great verbal skills and even knowing he is fleet of foot, you would have no more understanding of what and who he is. I could say he is perfect and beautiful, because he is, but still you would have only a dim and out of focus glimpse of who and what he is. He is solid and will of the wisp at the same time. He is yesterday today and tomorrow, but mostly he is Jack, and through all of his changes, he will always, reassuringly, be Jack and no one else. He would scoff at the very idea of being anyone but himself, because he is unflinchingly honest with himself first, and then everyone else. What more could you ask for?

His mind is as fast and unrelenting as his racing feet, and he loves gadgets. He especially loves iPhones, iPods, and iPads. If you aren’t looking, and even if you are, his little fingers race across the screen until he finds what interests him. Nearly everything does, but the talking animal programs fascinated him, and when I got home again, I discovered that he had made a good thirty videos of Larry the talking bird and the talking, snarling, farting cat, whatever his name is. I didn’t even know that it was possible to do that. I deleted them all, because the next time I see him, I am quite sure we will need the room for something else he can do that I didn’t even know was possible.

What else, you ask? Well, he is beautiful, intelligent, has a great sense of humor, a wonderful giggle, and is very snuggly and engaging. If you call him on the phone he will alternately tell you hi and bye bye with great excitement, along with everything else he can think of. That makes for long and satisfying conversations for both of us. Probably more so for me, because I could listen to that soft sweet treble forever. He is perfect and I love everything about him. Some of my best times were when I held him on my lap and watched in amazement as he coaxed my electronics into doing things that only he or a tech wizard would know. By tech wizard, I mean most people over the age of twelve. This obviously excludes besotted grandparents. Grandparents and parents are the perfect foil for cunning children with angelic faces. We are always ready to be impressed and adoring. And happily, they are always ready to impress us.

Happy birthday darling Jack. You have grown so much, and so quickly in the last year, that it takes our collective breath away. You walk, you run, you climb, you speak, and you love. You are the most perfect you that you can be, and every day you change and grow, and become the most wonderful you that you can possibly be. You have solved the riddle of the ages: how to stay the same, while becoming a new and different you every day of your life. Somewhere in the middle of one of your delightful conversations about Elmo and puppies, I half expect you to tell me all about the mysteries of life, and I will not be at all surprised when you do. In the meantime, happy birthday sweet boy. I love you so much it makes me dizzy, and it makes me realize how lucky I am to have you in my life. Thank you for being you, and thank you for sharing space on the road of life with a weary traveler. It makes the steps lighter and filled with joy when you are there. May all of your hopes and dreams come true, and may you never stop dreaming and believing at least five impossible things before breakfast. You are loved, little man. How could you be anything else?

Winter birthdays aren’t rare, and I would venture to guess that a fair amount of the world’s population was born during the winter months. What is rare, is when one of those birthdays belongs to someone amazing and special. We expect people born in the warm months to be cheerful, happy and well, warm. We don’t always expect people born in the long dark days of winter to have sunny dispositions and a ready smile to arm themselves against those seemingly endless long cold days. Shame on us, because we should! We should especially expect it of people who were clever enough to be born exactly one month to the day after their soul mates. I suppose I could equally say people who were clever enough to be born eleven months before their soul mates, who happen to be born in December. It’s all a matter of perspective when you look at it. Whether you are before or after, in the calendar of life, you are very lucky if you know someone who was born today.

I do know one of those amazing people and today we celebrate her amazing life. Some people are content to watch people who travel through life in the fast lane, and some people don’t even think twice about what lane they are in. They jump into the fast lane before they can jump, and are astonished that the rest of the world isn’t keeping up with them. If I could draw Kara, I would draw her like they do in graphic novels. She would have lines radiating away from her body to show that she is always in motion. Even when she sits still, which is rare, you are aware that there is a lot going on behind those large and lovely eyes. She does not see life as it is, but life as it should be. Some people would say she has a lot of causes that interest her deeply, but I would say that she is deeply interested in life and other people. To say someone has a cause these days is to sound silly, because we all have a cause or a purpose in life. Some of us are dimly aware of what they are, and some people are born knowing why they are here, and they get down to the business of getting down to business while the rest of us are still sitting in the sandbox, and pouring sand out of our shoes.

Even though today is her birthday, we all get a fabulous present because we know her, and are lucky enough to be caught in her orbit. She has metaphysical pockets filled to the brim with smiles, and she hands them out with generosity and a ready smile of her own. Even though we met less than ten years ago, I feel as though I have always known her, and always will know her. She does not hide who she is: even if you are not paying attention, and you should be, you know who she is almost as soon as you know her. To be anything less than warm, open, and candid would be a foreign concept to her, and it would be dishonest. You can waste your time trying to figure out lesser mortals, but you don’t have to wonder about Kara. What you see is what you get, and what you get is so much more than you could ever imagine. The only thing you have to wonder about, is why it took you so long to get there.

She has made two men whose names start with the letter D, amazingly happy. She gives them the space they need, and she instinctively knows that when you love people, you don’t fence them in. You allow them to be who they are and they love you for it, and never forgot that in the dark confusing place called life, there is always a safe haven, and a pair of loving arms to welcome you back from your travels. Maybe you only travel to the end of the block to buy a quart of milk or a loaf of bread, and maybe you travel to the ends of the earth and back, and come home with magic flowers that only grow one place on earth. It doesn’t matter what you bring, or whether you are gone five minutes or five years; your welcome will be just as warm and loving as if you had never been gone. You will be made to feel just as special as you are, and you will be treated the same whether you are a king or a peddler.

She can make a fabulous meal or throw a home together in no time at all, and you will swear that there is an army of invisible elves helping her to do it, but there are no elves. There is only Kara and the amazing energy and talent she brings to any job large or small. Some people live in houses, but she lives in a home filled with light, love and laughter. Is it any wonder her two men are happy to stay there and not travel the world? Her house feels like a home whether it is your home or not, and you will tend to think of it as your home. She makes everyone feel welcome, whether they are expected or just turn up on her doorstep, and Damon and Dylan will make you feel the same way. It is impossible to feel unloved or unwanted when you are there, and it is impossible not to feel sad when you are leaving.

I could use ten thousand words and think that I had described her perfectly, but ten thousand words would never come close to doing her justice. She is just one of those amazing people that isn’t like anyone else, and seeing is believing. Or in this case, maybe you could see her every day for twenty years and still be unable to tell another person how wonderful she is. Some things have to be experienced to be believed, and even then you can’t believe how lucky you are, and how wonderful she is, because we are always suspicious when things are too good to be true. In this case, you should have no doubts, and you should congratulate yourself on being lucky enough and smart enough to know when someone so amazing and so special is in your life. Every day should be a celebration, and every day should be drenched with sunshine no matter how dark or inhospitable the weather or the whether is.

Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, no matter what you call her, she will always have a special place in her heart just for you. When you are with her, you will feel like the only person in the world, because you will be treated as though you are special, and she will listen to every word you say, no matter how trivial, and she will make you feel as though you matter. When she smiles, and she does frequently, the sun, moon and stars are all shining and twinkling at the same time. Last time I checked, that wasn’t possible, but if you hang around Kara long enough, you begin to feel that nothing is impossible, and that is a good way to feel.

Happy Birthday little K, you are special and you are loved, even if we don’t always say it. There is no one in the world quite like you, and just knowing you are there, makes life so much more pleasant. Every day is not your birthday, but every day we know you is a celebration, and a pretty good reason to decorate and bake a cake. Whenever we think of you, we are smiling, which means that anyone lucky enough to know you is smiling every day of the year. Thank you for being the person you are, and for making two very special people unbelievably happy, and for making everyone you know feel the same way. Soon, you will be making three special people unbelievably happy. No matter how large or small your circle is, people will always be happy to be there. Dylan has assured us all that her name will be sponge bubble juice, but I doubt that it is. Whatever name you do call her, she will be lucky to always call you her mother, and she will treasure every day she spends with you. Thank you for the love and the laughter, and for making every day special, and know that we are always thinking of you, and wondering how we got to be so lucky.

Silver bells, sleigh bells and the clear beautiful treble of small voices that fill many homes, are the essence of Christmas. Trees and wreaths are lovingly decorated and welcome everyone to our homes, and provide endless excitement for small residents and visitors. Christmas marks the birth of Christ for adults and for older children, but deep inside there is that restless, endless excitement of knowing that among the pile of presents, there just might might be something magical. When I was a child, I was reduced to endless sulks over the pajamas and underwear that appeared under our tree with monotonous frequency. It was not just any tree either: it was an artificial silver tree with silver balls hanging primly and austerely from the branches. The only light provided was from a color wheel. We would lie under the tree and giggle helplessly as we watched each other turn red, blue or green, while my mother admonished us not to overturn the tree. Since our Christmas turkey weighed more than the tree, it was always a valid concern. Just once, we all said, we wanted a real tree. My mother, ever practical, dashed all of our dreams by bringing out the hated metallic tree year after year.

Every year it came out of the attic, and the branches were removed from their protective cardboard cones, and inserted into the frame. Every year my mother and father hung the ornaments, and every year we were told to stay away from the tree. To us, it wouldn’t have been a bad thing if it had fallen over. It might have meant new ornaments or a new tree if we had managed to destroy it, and we were nowhere near accomplishing that Herculean task. The tree was unabashedly sterile, but it was our tree, so we learned to live with it while dreaming of the smell of pines and evergreens, and the gentle patter of raining needles at the neighbor’s homes. We would pick them up and sniff them rapturously, all the while knowing that the loathsome silver beast awaited our return.

My mother used that tree long after it fell out of fashion, and always saw it as refined and elegant, even when the branches looked crushed and grimly reminded us of long ago Christmases where Santa once again had failed to get the notes we painstakingly wrote. I don’t remember any candy canes or eggnog either, and what is Christmas without one or both of them? Naturally, as the child of a minimalist, I prefer both, and every year we buy five dozen canes to decorate the trees. The day after the tree is decorated my husband starts eating the candy canes, and by Christmas Eve, nearly a dozen will be gone. His taste for peppermint wanes by New Years, and when the tree comes down, the canes repose in a large bowl; he will eventually manage to consume another three or four dozen by Easter. I like the visual impact of candy canes, and the bright red stripes, but I prefer looking to tasting. I never have developed a taste for those. If you give me the fruit flavored ones, I will eat one or two, but for me they are decorations. They are not edible, and not treats. The only Christmas candy I like are the pecan and chocolate Turtles with the squishy caramel filling. But again, I will not eat that many. We only buy one box, so that box will be eaten by my husband and any children who are here at Christmas. It’s no wonder that they don’t eat many candy canes, with that kind of competition.

I miss the days when our children were small and chattering around us as we decorated the Christmas tree together. I miss the endless dozens of cookies that we baked and decorated, some rather garishly, with brightly tinted icing, edible sprinkles and colored sugars. I miss snuggling up with small warm bodies on the couch and watching Christmas cartoons and specials. I miss the ornaments made of flour and salt that hardened and were painted with bright colors and hung from ribbons on the branches. I miss the running footsteps on the stairs of the old homes we lived in, and the shrill excitement of Christmas morning. I miss the exclamations of delight as packages were ripped open. My mother was a paper saver, and every year we had to carefully unwrap all the paper and hand them to her, or suffer a clip on the ear if we tore it. She wasn’t alone. Back in those days, everyone ironed wrapping paper after every use, and often the ribbons that went with them. When we grew up, we threw away the paper with unholy glee, and filled trash bags with bows and paper and tags. To me the real fun of opening a present is ripping the paper off: the better and the faster to get to the gift.

We all stick to our traditions and what we know, so for years we bought and used a big artificial tree. Later we bought real trees, and my husband and I argued back and forth. He preferred Scotch pines, while I preferred evergreens and blue spruces. Sadly, allergies reared their ugly head and my oldest son and I broke out in large hives from touching and smelling the pine tree. That was a sad day for all of us. Next year it will be time to buy a new tree, and I lean as always, towards the ones that only require being plugged in. I always hated having to string the lights on and even worse, winding them around a cardboard cylinder after taking them down. No matter how carefully we wrapped them around the cardboard, we found a tangled mess every year when we unpacked them.

When we got the first pre-lit tree, and later still, the first fiber optic tree, I was in pre-lit heaven. Even though my husband managed to knock down the fiber optic tree innumerable times each year, and it eventually leaned like a forlorn and drunken tower of treesa, I still put it up every year. We can only hang pine cones and candy canes on it, because it’s proclivity to capsizing is the stuff of legends. Minor legends, but legends all the same. The fiber optic craze didn’t last, and even though I would dearly love to replace that tree, I haven’t been able to find another one locally in some years. It is my beau ideal, and there is nary a one to be found. Some day I will scour the internet and find one, and I will be happy again.

Christmas is about Jesus and then it is about creating our own special traditions with our own families. We opened presents on Christmas Day, while my husband’s family and my sister’s in-laws opened on Christmas Eve. My brothers, sister, and I found it a barbaric practice, and none of us would countenance it in our own homes. As a sop to our husbands and overly excited children, we all opened one present on Christmas Eve and saved the rest for Christmas Day. One year when the children and their spouses came home for Christmas, we opened early because one had to leave Xmas Eve day for Christmas out east. I thought we might as well open them all, but later I felt as though I had ruined the holiday. My son-in-law and oldest son looked at me with confusion as I exhorted them to go ahead and open everything. It didn’t feel like Christmas after that, and I felt as though I had stolen Christmas from them and from me. I never lost that feeling of despair, so these days, when there are presents, they are saved for Christmas morning. My husband and I don’t buy Christmas gifts for each other and try to keep it as a day of religious significance. At any rate, we always bought what we wanted or needed year round, so there was no need. For us, Christmas was always about the children. I always liked the French and Polish custom of observing the religious holiday, and opening gifts the day afterwards, to keep things in their proper perspective.

There have been no little voices and there has been no pattering thunder of tiny feet rushing the tree on Christmas Day for some years. To me, the essence of Christmas has always been about the children, and festively, it doesn’t seem the same as an adult. The one thing that does seem the same, and the one thing that becomes more important every year is that Jesus was born, and His birth opened the gates of Heaven for us, because we could not earn a place in heaven through our own merits. For me, that is the greatest gift of all, and it makes Christmas Day 365 days a year. Thank you Jesus. I know I don’t say it enough, but thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have done more for me and for everyone than I can find the words to express my gratitude with. Happy Birthday once again, and thank you for the greatest and best gift of all. I love you very much. It would never be Christmas without you.

On December 17th, many years ago, more than I care to remember really, a very special Xmas gift arrived early. It was appropriate since in all the years since then, that gift had a habit of handing out presents up to three weeks ahead of the celebration at hand. In school one year, they made hand prints in rounds of clay and baked the clay in the oven until it hardened. It was the sort of thing children liked making, and it was the very thing that parents liked receiving. It was a portable memory capsule capturing a moment in time, or a period in time.

He was small and rosy cheeked with enormous eyes that were shaded by lush eyelashes, which I always thought whimsically, were as thick as a clump of spider legs, or perhaps if waxing poetic, fine gossamer threads of golden perfection, but I always said spider legs, forgetting that he was a child that would have understood gossamer threads even if he didn’t understand it. I’ll say it now. Gossamer threads of pure golden perfection, shading large soft eyes that somberly watched the unsuspecting world. Those eyes and that little boy discovered that the world isn’t always kind to minstrels and troubadours, and people who could look at someone and parse their soul in record time. That one glance told him everything he needed to know, and whether it turned out to be correct or not, it is what he went on. More often than not, children see things correctly in one swift piercing, devastating glance. It is only when they become adults that they refuse to accept what they have seen, and they turn the other way, looking for a reasonable explanation. That explanation may never be there, but it won’t stop them from looking.

When your heart is tender and full of miracles, smiles, giggles and angel’s breath, that is what happens. That inherent belief in the goodness and worth of others has often stood him in good stead, and at other times it has broken his heart and dreams, but more often than not, it has served him well, and he looks at the world with innocent soft eyes surrounded by fine gossamer threads, expecting everyone to be as wonderful as he is. Frequently, innocence and goodness are their own reward and other people, even rather dodgy people will react to an expectation of goodness by behaving themselves. Perhaps it shames them into being what they once were or could have been, but I often think that if he were exposed to the world’s worst people, at least one of them would miraculously learn to behave themselves, to repent of things better left unsaid. I have sometimes thought of him as a walking, talking nightlight for lost souls, but he is a nightlight for anyone’s soul, whether lost or found.

He did many things as a child, but the one thing he did really well was to love others and treat them as he expected to be treated. Long before he read the verse that said do unto others, it is what he did. He expected to be treated well because he treated everyone well, and he kept his own counsel. Initially he was shy and viewed life from the sidelines, but once he had things figured out, he jumped in with both feet and his heart, mind and soul were fully engaged. He was a child with a ready smile, and the one that faced new situations head on and with an armor that seemed impervious to the slings and arrows of life. If you needed something, he was there for you, and he never left.

He could turn an enemy into a friend, and left them better than he found them. Aside from goodness of heart and a fine mind, he had a devastating wit that could level any opponent from any distance. To this day he can always make me laugh until I cry, but I can’t always make him laugh. I consider it a great victory when I can. Once he gives you his heart, it is yours forever, and he will never take it back, as long as you take good care of it, and value it for what it is.

He ran in sunshine, skipped in puddles of crystalline rain, and jumped in piles of leaves. He made angels in the snow and he smiled with the sheer joy of living. He walks under rainbows every day of his life, and while others may never even suspect that a rainbow is there, he knows, and he takes care to keep it in good trim. He is like Santa Claus. He knows what you’re thinking and he knows whether you have been bad or good. I always try to stay off the naughty list, but as a mother, I have been known to never have an unexpressed thought, and often they are thoughts that he wishes I could and would keep to myself. When I have disappointed him, he lets me know, and he lets me know that he is always there regardless. That is love, and that is the essence of Damon in one word: love. Love without conditions, and love that never dies, unless you have managed to starve it or beat it into submission. Very few people have managed that, but once they have, he will wish them godspeed and walk away. He does his part, and he always will. If you fail to do yours, he will say goodbye and walk away without a backward glance. He didn’t fail you, but you failed him, and you failed yourself. If you fooled him once, you won’t be allowed to do it again. He is good, kind, and wonderful, but he is not, and never has been, stupid.

No matter how old he is, he will always be that dear, sweet little boy with the head full of dancing golden curls who danced on the outskirts of life. Then he danced with an off key world, and left it singing and humming a new tune. He has grown very tall since those days, and there is still a twinkle in his eye and a dance in his step, metaphysically, and metaphorically speaking. Sometimes I look at him and still see that small boy with a heart that looked for goodness and found it. I wish that I still had the small clay hands that were broken and lost in a move that I can no longer remember. Long after the little clay hands were broken I saved them, but then one day they disappeared, never to return.

Little boys grow up and clay hands stay the same, but human hearts are always there if you treat them kindly and love them more than you ever thought possible. No matter how much time has passed, you can still love them and marvel that someone so wonderful is in your life, and can turn the darkest day into a smile that never ends. That is magic, and that is Damon. For as long as I live I will treasure that little boy and the dancing curls that are still there, although several shades darker. Sometimes when I think I have been a miserable failure as parent, he is always there to tell me, that he always knew he could always depend on me, whether I knew it or not.

In life we walk our own paths, and if we are very lucky, we have those we love to walk those paths with us, to hold our hands and hearts, and to let us know that no matter who else lets us down, they never will. Sometimes when everything else is going wrong, and that is the only thing that is going right, it is more than enough, and an embarrassment of riches. My legs and back aren’t what they were, and my balance can be precarious, but somewhere in another time and another world, I can run and dance after a little boy who may be an angel that I entertained unawares. That is the pity of life: that we don’t always know what we have until it is gone. I was lucky, and I know what I had and what I have. No matter what else I lose, he is always there with a smile, gentle eyes and a devastatingly funny line that will ease the sorrows and remind me that life is good, and worth living.

Sometimes a little boy is just a little boy and nothing more, and sometimes the world is gifted with a little boy who will never be rich or famous, who will never have the ears of politicians or kings, but who will always have the ears and hearts of those lucky enough to know him. Sometimes that life is so full that he scarcely has time to take in everything, but somehow he does. He sees past the Ferris wheels and the carousels, the sparkling lights and the madness that daily life is often composed of, and he takes a deep breath, smiles, and he sees you. He sees every particle of you and knows who you are without words being exchanged, and he gives you himself so completely and so trustingly that you can do nothing else but cherish the days, weeks, months, years, seconds, minutes, and hours. We ought to always treat each other that way, but we don’t, and sometimes God sends someone to remind us, that this is as close to perfect as we get on earth.

In the spirit of that small eager child, who would come racing home from school with a present in his hand, and who would thrust it at us, and demand that it be opened at once, I say Happy Birthday, one day early. It is the least I could do. Well that, and say that I love you more than I can ever find the words to tell you, and that I treasure every moment that I have known you, and will know you. Happy Birthday little D, and may the year ahead be exactly what you hope it will be. May you always walk in rainbows and sunshine, and may there always be a unicorn lurking in the starlight that is just around the corner. In your world, they always are, and I am honored to share in that wonderful world.

Happy any other meat or protein day to everyone who isn’t eating turkey today. The holiday season has officially kicked off, and all I am getting in my Inbox is announcements of Black Friday sales. Really?! They can’t leave us in peace for one day? I am ignoring any and all such things and spending the day thanking God for the freedoms we enjoy, for the ability to know Him, love Him and serve Him. I am grateful to the military who gave up easier lives in order to serve their country and keep us all safe. I am grateful to them all, past present and future. I am grateful to my wonderful family whom I love more than life itself, and I am honored to know them all and share their lives and space on this earth together. I am grateful to my grandchildren who fill me with love, laughter, and inspire me to be a better person. I am grateful to my husband for so many years of love and devotion, who has had many opportunities to say, “I told you so,” and never has. I am grateful that I will not be in the kitchen all day today, but will be watching football while the slow cookers do all the work. I am especially grateful that I will not be making or eating turkey today. I am not doing much of anything in the kitchen today, unless you count food prep and making breakfast. Today will be something other than the usual cereal or fruit. I am grateful to all the food companies who make gluten free food. I am currently in raptures over gluten free Rice Krispies. They are delicious and the texture and taste is what I remember, and best of all, they really do still go snap, crackle and pop! That and a bit of sugar will start the day out right, just not today. Today is waffle day for the guys, and fruit smoothies for anyone who wants them.

I am grateful that I can watch the Chicago Thanksgiving Parade instead of the Macy’s parade. Chicago has always held a special place in my heart and it always will. Today I will think of Chicago’s beauty, architecture, diverse neighborhoods, sports teams, and people, and I will try to forget that it is as well known for corruption and the “machine”, as it is for anything else. Have a wonderful day and take time to reflect on your many blessings and to be grateful for the one who gave them to you.

The holiday is fast upon us and my home, as always, is in chaos. No matter how far ahead of time you begin to plan for these things, and no matter how many things you buy, there is always something forgotten. I am having one of those mornings and there is nothing to be done about it, but to give in and abuse myself for not remembering to buy whatever. My husband was on his way out the door to go to his veteran’s group meeting, and I was rattling off a list to him. He smiled at me and said fine. Rather, he grimaced at me and said yeah sure, but I speak husband and that’s sort of what he meant. What he really meant was fine, it will be Thanksgiving on Thursday and that is the day I can finally stop going to the store to buy everything that you forgot. Again. I have a habit of thinking one thing months before the fact, but with me, things tend to be less permanent than with others. The facts and circumstances are mutable, and as the wind changes, so do I. Some might even say that the wind is much more constant than I am, but life is what it is. I will probably even venture outdoors later to buy anything else I haven’t currently thought of.

People always say not to sweat the small things, but small things have a way of becoming big things once you turn your back on them, and life is made up of small moments, all connected in some mysterious cosmic way. If we didn’t sweat the small things, maybe we wouldn’t get some of the big things, so I deal with it, and my husband dutifully shops for me on his way to and fro, and I stay at home cleaning, straightening and wondering where on earth I am going to put anything and everything that is currently staged on the dining room table before the holiday child appears. He is coming again for Thanksgiving, and we indulge each other in our fondness for anything not turkey. I have already been told that I am serving pork and no cranberry sauce please, and ix nay on the green bean casserole and fruit salad. He is a purist, and while I think cranberry sauce is good with anything, he thinks it is only good with turkey, and since he doesn’t often eat turkey by choice, you get the picture.

In a sign of the times, and to accommodate the small muslim population who might want to eat a Thanksgiving turkey, Butterball now has all halal turkeys all the time. I find this both amusing and irritating and I think it is pandering of the worst kind. Every time I hear something like this, I want to pull my hair out. Just don’t eat the damned turkey if it will offend you. I guarantee that you won’t be offended by non-halal poultry at my home this Thursday, but you will most certainly be offended by non-halal pork, and I may even have a package of bacon around just for the heck of it. On the other hand, if you want and must have halal turkey fine, but why should a company bend over backwards for a small percentage of the population? Just because I am contrary and able to hold two conflicting thoughts at the same time, I am happy that muslims can buy halal turkey, but I will never buy Butterball brand again. Some meat processors do limited kosher runs at their plants, but I have never heard of a company going all kosher just for Jewish people, for the heck of it. I am quite certain that Butterball will never go broke because I don’t spend ten dollars or twelve or whatever, because so far they haven’t gone broke on the basis of my lack of compliance. It is however, now etched in stone for me: if you are a company that panders, count me out. I can’t bear corporate whoring, aka political correctness, and if it isn’t halal they are going on about, then it’s green, and if I’m really unlucky, some day it might just be both!

Football has been a mixed bag this year, and there has been good along with the bad. Or maybe it would be more correct to say that there has been bad along with the worse. Teams seem sloppy and disorganized and the officials are nitpicking jackasses a great deal of the time. I see overly scrupulous calls against my teams, and I see the other teams getting away with murder. Horse collars, face mask violation, roughing the quarter back, late hits and every infraction under the sun, and under the very noses of the zebras. Just like Charlie Gibson, they never heard of it, they never saw it, so just move along and never mind.

Aside from lackadasical/overly scrupulous zebras, the players seem prone to an astonishing amount of injuries. I realize that it is getting late in the season, but every week the game seems to be exerting a higher toll on the players than usual. Maybe it’s just because I subscribe to Team Stream and am more aware of the injuries than usual. Maybe the statistics support that it isn’t more than an average year injury wise, but to me it seems like one after another after another. Other than injuries and blind zebras, I am offended constantly by the commentators taking sides and praising one team to the heavens while practically ignoring the other team. If you watch games via the local feed, then you would expect that, but when a network broadcasts games nationally, you should be able to expect fair, unbiased, even-handed treatment. If you listened to the Eagles/Giants game on Monday Night Football, you would have thought that Eli Manning was playing with himself. Rude pun intended. All we heard about was the greatness of the Mannings and Eli, being the only Manning playing this season, we heard all about his awesomeness. Eli Manning apparently walks on water, cures the sick and drives out demons. He is the second coming of Peyton Manning, and personally, I was never all that impressed with Peyton either.

If someone is fawned over and talked to death, I find it irritating, boring, and a great disservice both to the player and the fan alike. Living on Mount Olympus means that life can be cold and rigid, and if you take a tumble, it’s a long way to the bottom. You expect Peter King and his ilk to gush like silly little school girls over their pet players, and you can choose not to read him/them. On a national telecast, there is no escape unless you watch the game without any sound. The only time I turn on the sound is if I want to know what the zebras are babbling about. I like the game better when I don’t have to listen to how great a good or mediocre player is. I like it better when I don’t have to listen to verbal orgasms from the talking heads. Silence is golden and much to be preferred when it comes to football.

Now on to Ben Folds. I like Ben and I find him amusing, highly intelligent, talented and a man with a unique turn of phrase, that makes highly entertaining ear candy. I have several of his CDs, and I will probably buy several more, but as a judge on “The Sing-Off”, Ben has come under considerable wrath. Never mind that he can be stodgy when it comes to criticism, and never mind that he and his fellow judges can sometimes complain about things that the average person doesn’t hear or mind. Afro Blue was sent home last night in favor of retaining the sometimes execrable Dartmouth Aires. Folds’ vote was the deciding vote, the one that spelled doom for my Blues.

His reasoning came totally out of left field. He didn’t think they were commercial and could sell records. That was incomprehensible and somewhat stupid. There are many Afro Blue fans who would argue with that, and the idea of a somewhat intellectual performer castigating someone else as being out of touch and non-commercial is laughable. the music and entertainment industry abounds with talent that has cult followings. They manage to make a living and so do their producers, agents, et al. If you want to back a less talented horse, do it, but don’t give apocryphal reasons for doing so. There are too many entertainers that have no feeling for the music they produce. When you find someone who satisfies aurally, emotionally, and intellectually, you should prize them and not send them home. This is why I hate talent shows. The judges and I never agree, but generally I am not this aggrieved. This time I am, and the affable Mr. Folds ends up in my doghouse without a bone, a rug, or a bowl of water. For me the show is spoiled, and my husband may watch his favorite program without me for the finale next Monday night. Thank goodness for Richard Castle. He really is ruggedly handsome….

Before I forget, Happy Thanksgiving to all, even Ben Folds. Enjoy the beginning of the holiday season with those you hold dear, and spare a thought for our brave men and women both at home and overseas, who work ceaselessly to keep us safe. Because of their efforts, we are able to thank God for the bounty on our tables, and the freedoms we take for granted. This year, let’s resolve not to take them for granted. Let us truly appreciate what we have, and be truly grateful.

Most long time readers and friends know that I have a love and fascination for both Israel and India. Israel has been a new love just in the last twelve or so years, while India has been swimming around in my mind since the first National Geographic that I saw when I was a small child. I loved the brightly colored clothing, the chic chignons, the bindis, the intricate designs of the wedding henna, the elephants, the jewelry, the architecture. I loved it all. Later when I was older I was fortunate to meet several people from India and I treasured their friendliness, their innate natural dignity, and their gentleness. They were amazing people and I was blessed to know every one of them. Many of them were chance encounters, at doctor’s offices and airports, oddly enough. We shared stories and we laughed and at times, even shared sorrows of the kind that you never share with someone that you will see again. It’s baggage that you don’t want front and center with those you know best, oddly enough, but it’s just right to share with someone you will never see again. I seem to have the kind of face that invites confidences and secrets. Those kind of secrets I never tell, to anyone. Others I may be more cavalier about. Just about any of my children can coax a secret out of me now and then, but not all secrets and not all the time.

So I have this long romance with India and her people, but nothing prepared me for the poor of India. We were channel surfing and I saw something called the Real Slumdogs or something like that. The title escapes me, but it turned out to be the best thing I have ever seen. Sometimes I think God nudges us in certain directions. I am quite sure He must be tired of me whinging and wondering why me, so He decided to show me that it isn’t just me, and that when I am throwing myself a pity party, I need to rein it in, and just let the party end. I have spent a few hours in the last year mourning the loss of economic freedom and the ability to buy things when I chose, instead of doing without or just saving and buying things a little at a time. I was used to a certain standard of living, and when the sky fell last October, I wasn’t prepared for it to be a long haul. I was patient initially and even over time, but there were times that the tantrums raged and the shouting and tears flew around the house like tornadoes of vivid emotions and angst, that just needed to burn themselves out.

Enter Dharavi; I will not refer to the people that I saw as slumdogs, as the movie did. They made it plain that they hated the term and found it horribly insulting. I think it is too, and can’t think why the producers of “Slumdog Millionaires” chose to call their film that. I know why the documentary makers did it: because they wanted people to watch and to see what happens in Dharavi. It’s a square mile of land in Mumbai and it is crammed to bursting point with over a million people, most of whom live in tin shacks, under the crudest conditions. They have electricity and running water, but supplies of both can be frequently interrupted. The women of Dharavi manage to clean their homes, their families and do the cooking and cleaning with such water as they can get. The people in the documentary were clean and they may not be able to shop for a lot of material things, but their clothes and bodies were uniformly as clean and colorful as those you would find in the middle class and upper class markets and streets of India. They take life as they get it and meet it head on. Water running now? Okay, we’ll use it and do what we can for as long as we can.

Imagine one square mile of prime Mumbai real estate teeming with over a million souls. The developers would love to come in and raze the slum, and it is an ongoing discussion in Mumbai and throughout India. If buildings, appartments and condos were erected in the place of the tin homes, the dumps, the businesses and the people of Dharavi, the estimated worth after development would be something like ten billion dollars, if I heard that correctly. Fortunately for Dharavi the faltering world economy has happened in India as well, so they are safe from eviction for the time being. But it is an ever present concern at the back of their minds.

In the meantime they survive, and more than that, they live. Aside from the tin shacks they call home, there are I think, eight mosques, twenty six temples, six churches and twelve schools. The number of home businesses is large. There are rag pickers who make their living doing a filthy job going through piles of junk and trash to find things to sell to the recycling plans. The plant owners make millions of dollars, the rag pickers make five dollars a day. To my amazement, whether rag pickers, tailors, bakers, embroiderers, barbers or whatever, everyone on camera had a positive attitude and a dream. Contrast that to us in western society who want everything and want it now. If we don’t get it, we look for something or someone to blame, and then some of our more foolish citizens take to the streets weeping that we can’t have everything we think we are entitled to. I doubt that any of the Occupy crowds would last a day in Dharavi or any other place like it.

Some of the people of Dharavi have indeed become millionaires and they do continue to stay there. It is what they know, and their friends and families are there. I saw no evidence of ostentation among the newly wealthy. They didn’t suddenly buy a big car or move to the suburbs. To a man (or woman), they said that it was better to stay with their businesses and loved ones. Why relocate when they could have what they wanted where they already lived? Why leave a life and people they have always known? Unlike some western societies where the poor and disaffected are told over and over that they don’t have a chance and never have, the people of Dharavi aren’t told that. They aren’t used for political capitol, and votes, they aren’t told not to dream and they do dream. They dream big of better futures for themselves and their children.

Again, in contrast to many western societies, the poor of India and Dharavi feel free to dream of better futures, and they value education. Many of the people interviewed had a reverence and respect for education that you don’t find in poorer communities elsewhere. They all said that the key to their children having a bright future was education, and much of their income goes to educate, feed and clothe their children. They don’t seem fazed by being surrounded by richness beyond comprehension, in other areas of Mumbai, or the other seventeen million inhabitants of their sprawling urban metropolis. They may not have the latest electronics, cars or gadgets, and they may only have a few changes of clothing, but they are content to work long hours at their jobs and to devote their lives to their families and whatever gods they worship. They are deeply concerned for the rest of their community and their futures. They do worry about being evicted and being forced to start over in abject poverty, but they take life as it comes, and I think they are much happier than we are. None of them seemed to loathe those more fortunate, or to complain about what others had that they themselves may have lacked.

Their love of family blew me away. When they looked at their children, they looked at them with real love and affection, and they stressed over and over the value of education, and the concept that their children could do, and be, anything they wanted to be. By the time that brief documentary had ended, I realized that to someone in Dharavi I would be considered wealthy and fortunate, and I resolved to never complain about my circumstances again. After all, I can do and be anything I want, just like them. Maybe it’s time we all started dreaming big again, and stopped complaining and taking to the streets to stamp our feet and pound our drums. Maybe it’s time we made our voices count, and elected the people we want, instead of the people we get or are stuck with. Maybe it’s time we all learned a lesson from those that we would consider less fortunate, but who don’t consider themselves that at all. Most of us are blessed and too foolish or immature to realize it. Instead of whining, we should thank God every day for what we do have, and we should thank the wonderful people of Dharavi for teaching us a lesson that we all need to learn and internalize. We should stop waiting for someone to do something for us, and get off our lazy butts and do it ourselves.

In the past, I have complained a lot about spam and junk mail, but much as I hate junk mail, there is something refreshing and hilarious about trawling through the spam filter. Invariably it is someone trying to sell me something, or it is a comment full of non sequiturs that as you would expect, have nothing at all to do with the post that they are “commenting” on. The sad part is that I haven’t gotten one Nigerian spammer trying to con me out of my life savings such as they are. Whatever happened to them anyway? I’m guessing that the current woeful state of the economy is to blame for it. Who knew that besides putting hardworking Americans out of work, that it would also account for the present and ongoing dearth of good dishonest, slacker Nigerians running a con? I hadn’t thought of it before, but now I feel kind of bad for them. How is a dishonest person to make a living these days when the heads of western countries are running the various economies into the ground? Who has a life savings to hand over to crooked Africans when our own governments are getting there first?

In addition to declining revenues from western style socialism, I would expect that just staying alive also has something to do with it. Finding something to eat and evading people whose sole mission in life is to whack your head off, may also have something to do with it. The expansion of radical islam into Africa, among other places, now makes it the most dangerous place in the world next to Paris and Norway. In Africa, they will cut your head off just for existing and being an infidel, while in Paris they will merely torch your cars and buildings, and physically assault you. In Norway, they will rape you for the crime of being blonde and female and daring to live like a person from a free country. Eventually in Paris and Norway, they will allow you the joys of dying as an infidel as well. If you live somewhere in Africa where they haven’t managed to chop your head off yet, they will eventually get around to it. The radical muslims actually have a (blank) year plan that works, unlike the Soviet Union and their countless and unceasing five year plans that didn’t work, because they kept collapsing under crushing levels of graft, incompetence, and corruption. Something many of us are seeing in our own countries now – the crushing graft, incompetence, and corruption, not the beheadings.

Mind you, with enough time we will have that too. Blood for oil, the EPA, and all that, you know.The muslims have wisely not announced how many years they are planning on, because they have infinite patience. They know that eventually the west will breed itself out of existence because they won’t have enough of their own citizens to sustain them, and they will be forced to import more and more new citizens, most of who will be coming for the free lunch and the chance to cut their decedent hosts’ empty heads off. Assimilation? As Charley Gibson famously says when he refuses to acknowledge something, “Never heard of it.” If if you stop up your ears long enough, you will indeed become blessedly numb to reality, and it won’t exist for you and other of your similarly insular friends and neighbors.

Be that as it may, and be that as it is, I miss the countless beseeching claims begging dear sir or madam to part with their life savings to help a scammer make a living. I must admit that after reading one and laughing hysterically, I ruthlessly began deleting them unread. I was amazed and astonished that anyone actually fell for their nonsense, and I almost began to wonder what had happened to people’s brains since the seventies. Atrophy I would assume. If you don’t use it you lose it, and judging from the sheer number of complaints against the scammers who were guilty of cheerfully liberating people from their monies, there was a lot of brain atrophy and lack of common sense afoot. I knew of people who toyed with the scammers with hilarous results, but alas the scammers aren’t around for anyone to bait anymore.

Pickings are slim for foreign scammers these days when we have elected scammers to do the work that foreigners can’t or won’t do. Our governments are leaping into the breech with spending scams and grabs that would leave an unsophisticated Nigerian breathless with wonder and admiration. Isn’t it nice that someone thinks highly of the governments that we don’t? Scammers and the government have so much in common, that you would think that they could work together beautifully. The least the president can do is to get Nigerians off the streets of Nigeria, and put them to work for the IRS writing con letters to their heart’s content. He doesn’t seem to care about America or it’s citizens but he just might have a soft spot for Nigerian scammers. On the surface they have so much in common that politics and government service seem like a logical progression for scammers, regardless of their provenance.

In closing, I would just like to thank spammers everywhere who are doing the work that my regular readers refuse to do. Keep your nonsense coming and I will keep reading and laughing. You make my day, honestly.

After nearly three years of having to go gluten free, I have pretty much made my peace with the fact that I will never buy or use ordinary flours again. I am reconciled to heavy non-traditional flours and baked goods that come out of the oven tasting like they are a day old already. I am used to whipping up a cake that lies in the pan like it is occupying it under extreme protest. I am used to things coming out of the oven flatter and looking more “interesting” than their gluten free counter parts. I am used to obsessively reading and rereading labels, because it isn’t safe to assume something is gluten free. Most of us have a good working knowledge of what we expect and don’t expect to see in certain foods. For instance I know that white bread, whole wheat bread, angel food cake and cake mixes are no go. That’s just common sense after all. Something made for the high percentage of people that can and will eat almost anything is not made for people like me.

I know that in most instances if I eat something that is in and of itself gluten free, but was processed in a factory that also processes wheat or grains, or made on a line that also processes products containing gluten, that the chances are good that eating it is a bad and stupid idea. Not to mention an “I-really-hate-myself idea.” I know that eating it will invariably give me a really bad reaction, and that it’s just not worth taking the chance. Looking on the bright side, a lot of the things that are now out of reach gastronomically speaking are also high calorie, high carb, overly processed foods. Candy anyone?

So yes, in three years or so of adjusting to a strange life in a strange land, I have learned a lot of things. Mostly I have learned to do without things that I formerly used, and mostly, I don’t mind in the least. My mother always said that I was a contrary and mercurial creature and nowhere is it more evident than in what I am eating and not eating. I almost take a masochistic pride in being different and having to say that something looks good, but no thanks. If you live alone it is much easier, but if you live with other people, even the most loving, well meaning other people can slip up and get you when you least expect it.

When my husband swore off gluten just to make things easier for me, I was happy. It takes a lot of love to give up something for someone else, and it takes a lot of vigilance. I was delighted to no longer have to buy two of everything and mark one for “Me” and one for “Everyone” else. When you don’t have to care who last was in the peanut butter or mayo jar or the butter dish, it makes things, well, normal, and something you never think about. You want it, you eat it. If you have food allergies you have to think about everything. You have to check it out before you eat it and make sure that no one else has been into it. It takes an annoying amount of vigilance, but when everyone goes the same route, you don’t worry that the spoon or knife that was the last one in the jar also touched gluten. If you’ve never been sick because of cross contamination, then you are very lucky indeed. If you have been, then you know the lengths we routinely go to, to ensure that we aren’t ingesting something that we shouldn’t.

Not only is it an issue of getting a bad reaction, and believe me those are bed enough, but every time one of us eats something that has been contaminated by gluten, the reactions tend to be worse each time, and our intestines can be further compromised, leading to worse problems and complications. The days are gone when I could take a chance on something processed in a plant that wasn’t gluten free. Initially I could eat that stuff with impunity, but nearly six months into being gluten free, I noticed that I was reacting to it, and badly. I think it must be that the longer one is away from something, the worse the reaction when one is exposed to it again.

At any rate, I bought everything by twos and labeled it to make it easier for my husband and safer for me. I even bought a second toaster specifically for me, and I can’t tell you how many times a toaster with my name on it was a problem. You think that’s silly? How about having to tell people you love that they can’t kiss you until they’ve rinsed their mouth out just because they had a piece of toast or a sandwich? I know people that have that problem because they are that sensitive, and it isn’t fun. I thought my troubles were over the day my husband said that he was giving up gluten for me, earlier this year. I was really happy. Initially it was fine, and it was fine for several months, but then I discovered that he was bringing crackers and things like that into the house. I didn’t find that out until yesterday when I noticed cracker crumbs in the peanut butter jar! I had been eating that all week without noticing it. My husband has an annoying habit of eating standing up and hunched over tables and counter tops when he’s grabbing a snack. Apparently he also dips his crackers into the jar without thinking about it. That’s normal man behavior, but it isn’t normal for the rest of us! The result was that I was sicker than I have been for a long time for the past week without knowing why. The indigestion and constant sound effects are bad enough, but the constant vomiting is worse, and if that isn’t bad enough, the weakness, exhaustion, and temper flare ups are horrendous. It’s somewhat like being on an extended hangover I think. I haven’t had one of those since I was in college, but I well remember the one and only time that I had one. It was enough to make me swear off alcohol unless I was making one of those wonderful rum cakes. Baking it, okay, drinking it, no.

So now I am back to square one and back to buying twos of everything and resorting to hiding mine, and hoping he doesn’t ignore the labels and dip who knows what into it again. It has been hard for him and it’s only normal that he would have an occasional slip up, but the constant vigilance is really wearing at times, and it is irritating to him to be questioned about suspicious looking crumbs on the counter tops and inside jars. He tries hard but he just forgets sometimes and I am grateful that he makes the effort, but it just isn’t second nature to him yet. He opened a new jar of peanut butter just for me yesterday and I am already examining it for suspicious crumbs! They wouldn’t be from me, because I eat peanut butter on apple slices but not on toast or crackers.

It may take him all year, or years until he knows what I know, but the fact that he makes the effort makes it easier, and it makes me happy knowing that he cares enough to walk in my shoes and eat in my kitchen. Slip ups are temporary, but love lasts forever, and it keeps us warm on the longest and coldest dark days of the soul. It makes everything easier and comforting, even if it doesn’t always make that jar of peanut butter safer!

The Penn State pedophile scandal makes me sick to my stomach, literally. If I think about it, my gag reflex takes a walk on the wild side. I can not imagine anything or anyone worse than someone who molests an innocent child and forces them into sexual encounters. That is sick and disgusting enough, but the pedophiles’ enablers are just as bad. That there were men in the athletic program and the college that knew about this and did nothing is almost beyond comprehension. Like Dracula’s henchman, Renfield, the Penn State athletic department and some in the administration knew about it, were in fact told about it by more than one source, and they did nothing. Unless you count the fact that they covered it up. In that case they did something, and what they did was sickening and the wrong thing. Once again the victims were left hanging while the college and the athletic department continued on with business as usual. The man in question was friends of, and friendly with, most of the staff who saw no reason to bring up his sickening perversion with him.

I don’t care if you are for homosexuals or against them, when it comes to pedophiles, there should be no tolerance. There should be no tolerance regardless of the sexual orientation of the accused. There have been way too many instances in the past ten years of teachers, ministers, priests, coaches, etc. molesting children. Depending on the sources you consult, everyone agrees that a pedophile is someone who engages in sexual activity with a minor child, although the ages they cite may vary. Some say sexual contact with children below the age of adolescence is pedophilia, and some say it is inclusive up to the legal age of consent. To me, it’s equally reprehensible regardless of the age, although I reserve particular animus for those who prey on young children, and use their position of authority to coerce and force those children into a living nightmare.

Now we have the predator portraying himself as the victim. He says he
s innocent. It seems odd that so many people have come forward to accuse an innocent person. A graduate student allegedly caught Jerry Sandusky in the act, and has gone on the record with his accusations, so it seems incomprehensible that Sandusky will walk away from this one. I’ve heard of politicians who were talking about making pedophiles a protected class. The only thing they need to be protected from is themselves and their vile impulses. Ever since the fall of Adam, people have been wrestling with their baser natures; what separates us is that some people have no filter and no compulsion about acting on their least admirable traits. Those people deserve no pity or sympathy. I have children and grandchildren and I would tear someone apart if they did what Jerry Sandusky allegedly did. I say allegedly because until he is convicted I can’t say that he did it. All I can and will say is that he’s damned lucky he never went near anyone I care about, because if he had, he would be in the process of being measured for a shroud and a coffin at this point.

No one called the police, the university covered it up and the man continued with his disgusting, filthy, and immoral behavior until the scandal finally broke. That such a man had access to children and the sports facilities at the university is beyond belief. This is not news to Penn State, they have been busy sweeping it under the carpet for years. Joe Paterno is now embroiled in the scandal, and there are calls for his resignation. He should resign, since he was told about Sandusky and the allegations against him. Informing the university administrators was not enough, and it does not let him off the hook. He should have called the police as soon as he knew what was going on. Joe Paterno is a sports hero and he could have ridden out any and all storms surrounding this. Instead he looked the other way while the university pretended to handle it.

Anyone who knew about what Sandusky did, who said and did nothing, is just as guilty as Sandusky himself is. They did nothing, and the code of omerta allowed a pedophile to continue to molest little boys with impunity. That is shameful and disgusting. When these men and women eventually stand before God, they will be harshly judged for their bizarre notion of loyalty. I read an interesting verse in the bible the other day, pertaining to God’s stand on homosexuality. After the verses prohibiting it, there was a brief sentence alluding to the fact that if we have knowledge of someone doing wrong, we are to correct them and tell that what they are doing is wrong. If we look the other way while someone consciously sins, then God holds us responsible in part for them continuing to sin. If we tell them they are doing is wrong and they continue to do wrong, the onus is on that person, and not on us. If we tell them and they stop their behavior, it’s a win/win for everyone concerned. Wrongdoing becomes a sin when someone is aware that what they are doing wrong and chooses to do it anyway. To me it seems pretty much a given that by a certain age most intelligent people know what is right and what is wrong. If they choose to do wrong, it is their choice. Don’t make it your choice by looking the other way and tacitly condoning their choice.

In this case, all it took was one sane and moral person to stand up to Sandusky, but for too many years there was no one to do it. Too many people didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to accuse an “upstanding” man of what he was doing. Why are we so cowardly these days? Political correctness has a lot to answer for, and so do we, when we allow this kind of behavior to continue and do nothing. All it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to say and do nothing. In the twenty first century, we have taken that to an art form. Not only will most of us do nothing, but we are so afraid of what others will say or think of us, that we stay silent long past the point of no return. The more we turn away from doing the right thing, the more we can expect of this kind of behavior.

I am sick of everyone looking the other way and sick of them being afraid that people won’t like them or will disagree with them. Anyone that can read the bible, knows God’s opinions on sin: He wants you to avoid it. All the politicians in the world will not change God’s stand on homosexuality, adultery, premarital sex, rape, murder, lying and stealing. It isn’t enough to be personally against it anymore. If we are ever to be more than cultural Christians we have to risk the wrath of politicians, friends and relatives and say that right is right and wrong is wrong. If you personally, for instance, don’t think that homosexuality and adultery and murder are wrong, you are free to think that, but you are in rebellion against God when you champion a behavior that he condemns and forbids. There are consequences for everything that we do, and God does not grade on the curve. He is a lot more scrupulous than the morally bankrupt politicians who make bad laws in order to get votes and money, and don’t care about those laws’ effect on the population. I will know that this civilization is past the point of no return when pedophiles become a protected class. I pray that day will never come.

God says we have to tolerate other people but he doesn’t say we have to accept their behavior. Once we do that, it is the beginning of a long and slippery downward path to destruction. When a child’s welfare is involved, we have to do more than correct the person who is doing wrong by that child. We have to keep on talking if the person we talk to is not going to stop their dangerous and destructive behavior. We have to keep talking until someone listens and does something about it. All the crap in the world about it taking a village is just that: crap. It takes one person who cares and who has the courage of their convictions to do something about it, to effect change. What a pity that it took so long for someone to do something about Jerry Sandusky. Think about this guy the next time you are going to look the other way and give someone a pass because you don’t want to get involved. If you don’t, some day, that just may come back to haunt you, when you least expect it.