The mental health professionals who shape the language of the DSM have been toying with the diagnostic language associated with pedophilia.
This matters because the pressure is now (and for some time has been) on legitimizing pedophilia.
Children are already largely the target of exploitation here and abroad. And in many parts of the world the legal protections for children are severely compromised or non-existent.
This waffling over the DSM is one more symptom that the rights of children to safe passage through childhood is eroding precipitously here as well.
Not quite four years ago.
It was a watershed moment. I looked around the courtroom at the other bewildered parents, frankly wishing that my (adopted) son was just a weed dealer or boat thief.
He had done so much worse, and to people who were too young, innocent, and precious to deserve such terrible affliction.
I whined to God–why?! Why me? Why us? Why this?
Too much to bear…
That was my line of thinking until steady eyed Jesus reminded me of the thing He had done for me–
…numbered with the transgressors
I was numbered with the transgressors.
The message was clear–if He, blameless God, could be counted with the evildoers, I could stand this terrible heartbreak and shame.
After all, He was numbered for me, an actual transgressor.
We often forget what misery we have bought but not yet fully paid for in our rebellion against Love.
Love, heartbroken for His children. All His children.
My young son poses the greatest math questions–
Is x 15 hundred thousand million billion? Is y 85 hundred 251 thousand 6725 million?
Yes. I know that means I need to work on number sequence with him, but there is a lovely poetry to his big, big numbers that I am not anxious to lose.
He approaches the infinite with gusto.
We, the American tax payers, often seem to have even less of a grasp of the bigness of big numbers. We need to break them down into meaningful units.
A trillion, for instance. Do you know how much a trillion is? A trillion dollars? A trillion stars? If we are ever to regain our fiscal footing we all must face an unimaginable debt. A debt in the trillions. Lots and lots of them.
And how about a billion? A billion people? A billion years? It is easy to pretend to grasp numbers that are beyond our normal comprehension.
And even a few hundred million. Heck, let’s just say 65. Sixty five million is great lottery payout, but a nightmarish loan.
Be careful of the debt you are not rich enough to pay by yourself. Be careful not just about money–here today, gone tomorrow, but the other kinds of debt a human can incur.
Grace or judgment on each note.
I write to stay off a steady diet of chocolate chip cookies and chips.
Notice I said–steady.
Sometimes I write an essay and then shelve it because it is too personal or polemic.
You can imagine how rough these pieces may be.
One such unpublished essay was, on review, well-spoken, passionate, and almost entirely wrong.
I had misjudged a man by a meme.
A man I now deeply respect and a quote taken out of context.
Yes, I still believe that we should not refer to people as “stupid.”
But as a current rabid fan of the Crash Courses on YouTube produced by John and Hank Green, I thoroughly endorse the Green Bros. and their ability to teach. They rock and they make my job as an educator much more fun and engaging.
Nothing stupid about that.
I will never forget the auditorium full of eager young doctors repeating that ancient oath associated with their profession.
A state school, to be sure…but I still registered shock when the good medicine of not doing harm and not administering abortions was strangely excised.
Because when you wanna convince doctors to look the other way when abortion becomes status quo you gotta take it out of the promise.
Excise babies? Excise conscience.
But the truth is that without that promise to protect life doctors are free to do unconscionable things.
The 30 mile rule is good medicine. It will save lives.
This is restoration of the unilateral protection of the law.
No more, no less.
Rain comes down
After the rush
After the game
Someone, always someone has to
Drive home in the dark
Whilst the victors go to Walmart.
You bring rain
You always God
You bring rain
And with it midnight lullabies
For an old insomniac like me
I understand the darkness
In his voice
In his shared sense
How “finishing the job”
Could seem so reasonable
To a monster-
She listens to the darkness
The lullaby for a child who would not
Now become a man
Face your god
Face your God
No wonder you do not believe in
When the other is something so unspeakable