I have a beautiful cousin who has recently battled breast cancer.
So when she posted this on Facebook–
I just used my boobs to get out of a ticket
I was pretty sure she had fallen prey to a game. But I thought, how do I not like this post?!
Either she has the sleekest, strongest sense of humor ever–able to reference the tough, painful, effacing road she has just travelled by poking fun at a reality that was never fun, or she has managed to wrangle herself out of a ticket as a double mastectomy survivor.
One way or other, she got my like.
This is me, posting on my wall, in honor of her–
I have never managed to do what you have done. Nope. Always got the tickets. Boobs never helped.
You are one of my heroes.
Today a baby in North Texas is receiving life-sustaining nourishment and medical care in a hospital. She is alive and growing and safe.
Until tomorrow when a judge has decreed that she and her medically fragile mother will be left to die.
The minimum requirement for you to retain your humanity is for you to think for one minute about the actual mechanism of death for that mother and child.
Will they starve?
And would you want to face their fate?
I do not have to search the annals of history to know what Hippocrates would say about withholding medical treatment in order to kill.
Our pragmatism has rendered us savages, trading our souls for money.
Make no mistake: the guy is worried about money.
And so are a lot of other people.
We live in a country where our most powerful democratic officials dispose of the innocent and medically fragile with great ease and increasingly callous language.
But these same officials urge us to believe that dangerous, violent offenders can be treated as harmless simply with the passage of time.
It takes money to raise a child.
It takes money to sustain life.
And it takes money to protect the innocent from criminals.
And because we do not want to spend this money we are extending the language of death to the living.
With monstrous consequences.
When ordinary people who pride themselves on their intelligence and compassion promote tenuous, highly subjective medical definitions that would have been unthinkable 10 years ago they are furthering a calculated agenda of regulating human worth and civil rights on fiscal policy.
The living have become “soulless” indeed and the “death panels” are here to stay.
I linger over little bits of cake. My gentile version of honey cake, my American girl version of lebkuchen, all thanks to Peg + Cat.
The honey on the cake reminds me of John the Baptist’s least emulated diet ever.
I think of him scooping honey from the hives of desert bees, dipping his locusts in the honey. Wild food for a wild man? Or deliberate food for a grave robber? Was he eating that way as an afterthought or a prophesy?
At table with our enemies.
I don’t know when I began to identify the enemy of Psalm 23 as death and his minions–sickness, pain, grief, and loss, but I do.
These are our true enemies. And the answer, the only answer I have when the pain of this world’s griefs become unthinkable is to look at Jesus at the head of this table and know that he owns the meal: bugs and honey and all.
After reading the usual raft of data on Ms. Davis’ confusion on the details of her own life story I went to the great oracle: Wikipedia.
An interesting read.
Back when she was fighting tooth-and-designer-trainers for Texas gals’ rights to terminate late-term babies Ms. Davis grabbed the podium with this narrative:
Shoe-string Harvard grad
Turns out none of that is true.
She divorced her first husband when she was 21.
Her second husband funded her education and went into debt to send her to school.
He also picked up the slack on caring for the kids.
So much so that when they divorced he got full custody and she paid child support.
Wendy Davis–bringing new meaning to that old Texas assessment:
All hat, no cattle
…but those running shoes are spiffy.
Please, Wendy, do Texas a favor and run somewhere else.