I have been thinking about the hypocrisy of radical environmentalists. They all seem to be ardent disciples of Evolution of a Species. Yet, they believe in the protection of endangered species. This doesn't seem to make any sense.
If man is just an evolved ape, why are we required to protect the less evolved. Beavers do not create laws to protect the fish, forest animals or natural environments that are affected by the building of their homes. Is it their responsibility to protect the fish who have not evolved enough to move in and out of the water? Are they responsible for the birds, bugs and creatures who find shelter and food in the trees they destroy to do what nature calls them to do?
And what of man? We give monkeys enormous props for being able to use simple tools. Making and using tools seems to be a huge factor in the determination of evolutionary status. I hate to mention it, but our tools put all others to shame. From the gun, to the back hoe, to cement, metal or the engine, we have figured out how to make tools like no other animal. In using these tools to manipulate the natural environment to our advantage, we are merely proving our place at the top of the evolutionary chain. Why are humans chastised by environmentalists for this evolutionary progress?
Why do we need to slow our evolution in order to protect the less evolved? Why do we need to protect animals who can not survive in the environment created by evolution? Isn’t that the whole idea of survival of the fittest? The fit will always adapt to the ever changing and survive. Those who can not adapt will die out or be replaced by a more evolved form.
Environmentalist call for man to be stewards of nature. We must not abuse our place at the top of the chain, but deny ourselves the opportunity to become more evolved in order to protect the natural world and the less evolved creatures in it.
Sometimes a self preservationist argument is made. If we do not protect our world, it will not be there for our future generations. This makes some sense. But it causes some problems too. If we are to survive, we would have to adapt to the environment our evolution had created. We would have to find new air or new water to replace what was destroyed through our own evolution. Animals do not protect their environments. They are required to change in order to meet the new challenges of an ever changing world. Those who can survive. Those who can’t don’t deserve to. Right?
Until the radical environmentalist know their first principals, they will continue to contradict themselves in absurd and dangerous ways. From a merely evolutionary perspective, we should first and foremost protect the survival of our own species. What animal has eaten its own healthy young in the mind boggling numbers as we and survived? What evolutionary doctrine protects the notion of abortion?
And in the end, man IS called to be a steward of nature. We are called to protect those who are weaker and less evolved than ourselves. But this is not a call from Mother Earth. This call is not rooted in survival of the fittest. It is in fact the greatest hypocrisy of the radical environmentalist. We are called to be stewards of nature, but it is a call from God.
If the entire doctrine of protection of the air, water and endangered species is rooted in a command from God to be good stewards of nature, does that not give some responsibility to give credence to His other commands? If not, then the radical environmentalists have no argument and should move out of the way as we cover our earth with concrete and steel, pollution and people and come up with technologies to replace the air, water and land we will eventually destroy. Or in the end, destroy ourselves and be replaced by something more evolved. I think the theory is that it would be the cockroach. And who are we to stand in his way?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
It Was a Dark and Stormy Night
So my boys, ages eight and nine, come home last night terrified after hearing a ghostly tale from the neighborhood pow wow. It was too dark for them to retell it to me, so I sent them to bed with the light on and the advice of filling their minds with good things like sliding down a rainbow into a pool of Skittles.
They were up early and still scared out of their wits. I asked them to tell me the story by the light of day. Here is how it goes:
A mom killed her baby because he was ugly. She couldn't stand the sight of his ugly face so she wrapped his head in a white cloth mask, cut off his head and threw him in the lake. (Nice, I know.)
Years later, she had twin daughters age ten. They were home alone when they got a series of calls on the phone: "It is baby mask, I am at the lake."... "It is baby mask, I am ten miles away."... "It is baby mask, I found your kitchen window unlocked." "It is baby mask, I am at your bedroom door."
Now here it seems, the story has two different endings, the real ending and the new one made up by a neighbor.
The original ending had the parents or sisters hiding under the couch (it was unclear in the retelling) when baby mask comes home. He lifts the cushions and sees them and says, "Good bye Mummy, Good bye Daddy." And disappears never to be seen again.
The new and improved version has baby mask chop down the door of his sisters' closet, cut off their heads and emerge to his parents on their return with one of the heads on his own shoulders and the question: "Am I pretty enough now mommy?"
I took my coffee out on the porch for awhile. When I came back in I said:
"I agree the stories were ghastly. But I think they may have had some good lessons in them." They looked at me like I was nuts. I continued anyway:
"Let's think about what this could all mean. Ghosts do not really walk the earth, but many authors have had them do so. Why are most ghosts we have read about, like Oscar Wilde's Canterville Ghost, roaming around?" This led to a discussion of all the ghosts we know and how they had bad deaths and were not at peace.
"And what started this whole story, what can we learn?" Older son thought mothers should not kill their babies. Younger son added, "Ugly people might grow up to be beautiful, so you shouldn't kill them."
We went on to discuss the old fairy tales where the good were always beautiful and the bad ugly. I explained how the authors used this to show us their insides. We discussed how Shrek had put a new twist on it. But the message was the same, it is how we act and what we do that makes us beautiful. I told them the story of Dorian Grey.
I suggested that Baby Mask might represent the conscience of his mother. We discussed how when we do things that are bad, we are reminded of them all the time and they make us afraid. Younger son recalled how he had nightmares for days after playing video games illegally until he fessed up.
We talked about what Baby Mask wanted from his mother. The answer was to be loved even though he was ugly. We decided if the mom had gotten on the phone and begged him to come home, threw herself at his feet and apologized, Baby Mask could have left in peace without killing anyone.
Older son is very literal. He said that babies who are aborted go to heaven, they don't become murderes. I told him he was right, but that this was not a true story. What could the daughters represent and why would Baby Mask kill them? We discussed how a guilty conscience can destroy everything we love. Even though she killed her ugly son and loved her beautiful daughters, in the end, she killed them all. Her guilt (which Baby Mask represented) eventually killed those things she did love.
We decided you can not be happy until you apologize for the evil you have done.
They seemed more at ease and I returned to my coffee. Then I thought of another point the story illustrated.
We have been talking a lot about natural consequences to our choices lately. I told them my own horror story:
A little boy is bullied in kindergarten, he is bullied in every grade in elementary school. When he gets to high school, he starts stealing dogs and cats in the neighborhood and killing them. He steals from every store he walks into. He grows up and goes to jail and when he dies he goes to hell.
Each kid that bullied him suffered from their choices. (They already have this part down). But also, they each contributed to sending a boy to jail and eventually to hell. Our bad choices don't just affect us. We are not in this world alone.
But wait, I said as they nodded in sad acknowledgement. The story could have a different ending. This boy is bullied by everyone. Except, one brave boy in kindergarten stands up for him. Then in fifth grade, another little girl tells the kids they are mean. Then in eigth grade, a boy defends him and they become friends. They start playing catch in the school yard at recess. They go out for the high school baseball team and make it. Then they go own to become professional baseball players.
One person's good choices can change the course of history. Our choices can lead not only us, but others to heaven. They both had a look of hope in their eyes.
But I was only looking at younger son. We have had the talk so many times about growing up to be a man of character and most of the time his answer is that he doesn't want to be one and he doesn't care about natural consequences. I realized I had presented it the wrong way. He doesn't care about saving himself, which is sad but true. However, he does want to save Baby Mask, the neighborhood dogs and cats and the bullied boy. I could tell by the look in his eye, he got it. His choices aren't just about him. I don't know how long it will last, but all day today, it was a good day.
And what did I learn:
Good CAN come from the ghastly. Isn't this how God works in our world.
Oh, and we also learned: Always remember to lock the kitchen window!
They were up early and still scared out of their wits. I asked them to tell me the story by the light of day. Here is how it goes:
A mom killed her baby because he was ugly. She couldn't stand the sight of his ugly face so she wrapped his head in a white cloth mask, cut off his head and threw him in the lake. (Nice, I know.)
Years later, she had twin daughters age ten. They were home alone when they got a series of calls on the phone: "It is baby mask, I am at the lake."... "It is baby mask, I am ten miles away."... "It is baby mask, I found your kitchen window unlocked." "It is baby mask, I am at your bedroom door."
Now here it seems, the story has two different endings, the real ending and the new one made up by a neighbor.
The original ending had the parents or sisters hiding under the couch (it was unclear in the retelling) when baby mask comes home. He lifts the cushions and sees them and says, "Good bye Mummy, Good bye Daddy." And disappears never to be seen again.
The new and improved version has baby mask chop down the door of his sisters' closet, cut off their heads and emerge to his parents on their return with one of the heads on his own shoulders and the question: "Am I pretty enough now mommy?"
I took my coffee out on the porch for awhile. When I came back in I said:
"I agree the stories were ghastly. But I think they may have had some good lessons in them." They looked at me like I was nuts. I continued anyway:
"Let's think about what this could all mean. Ghosts do not really walk the earth, but many authors have had them do so. Why are most ghosts we have read about, like Oscar Wilde's Canterville Ghost, roaming around?" This led to a discussion of all the ghosts we know and how they had bad deaths and were not at peace.
"And what started this whole story, what can we learn?" Older son thought mothers should not kill their babies. Younger son added, "Ugly people might grow up to be beautiful, so you shouldn't kill them."
We went on to discuss the old fairy tales where the good were always beautiful and the bad ugly. I explained how the authors used this to show us their insides. We discussed how Shrek had put a new twist on it. But the message was the same, it is how we act and what we do that makes us beautiful. I told them the story of Dorian Grey.
I suggested that Baby Mask might represent the conscience of his mother. We discussed how when we do things that are bad, we are reminded of them all the time and they make us afraid. Younger son recalled how he had nightmares for days after playing video games illegally until he fessed up.
We talked about what Baby Mask wanted from his mother. The answer was to be loved even though he was ugly. We decided if the mom had gotten on the phone and begged him to come home, threw herself at his feet and apologized, Baby Mask could have left in peace without killing anyone.
Older son is very literal. He said that babies who are aborted go to heaven, they don't become murderes. I told him he was right, but that this was not a true story. What could the daughters represent and why would Baby Mask kill them? We discussed how a guilty conscience can destroy everything we love. Even though she killed her ugly son and loved her beautiful daughters, in the end, she killed them all. Her guilt (which Baby Mask represented) eventually killed those things she did love.
We decided you can not be happy until you apologize for the evil you have done.
They seemed more at ease and I returned to my coffee. Then I thought of another point the story illustrated.
We have been talking a lot about natural consequences to our choices lately. I told them my own horror story:
A little boy is bullied in kindergarten, he is bullied in every grade in elementary school. When he gets to high school, he starts stealing dogs and cats in the neighborhood and killing them. He steals from every store he walks into. He grows up and goes to jail and when he dies he goes to hell.
Each kid that bullied him suffered from their choices. (They already have this part down). But also, they each contributed to sending a boy to jail and eventually to hell. Our bad choices don't just affect us. We are not in this world alone.
But wait, I said as they nodded in sad acknowledgement. The story could have a different ending. This boy is bullied by everyone. Except, one brave boy in kindergarten stands up for him. Then in fifth grade, another little girl tells the kids they are mean. Then in eigth grade, a boy defends him and they become friends. They start playing catch in the school yard at recess. They go out for the high school baseball team and make it. Then they go own to become professional baseball players.
One person's good choices can change the course of history. Our choices can lead not only us, but others to heaven. They both had a look of hope in their eyes.
But I was only looking at younger son. We have had the talk so many times about growing up to be a man of character and most of the time his answer is that he doesn't want to be one and he doesn't care about natural consequences. I realized I had presented it the wrong way. He doesn't care about saving himself, which is sad but true. However, he does want to save Baby Mask, the neighborhood dogs and cats and the bullied boy. I could tell by the look in his eye, he got it. His choices aren't just about him. I don't know how long it will last, but all day today, it was a good day.
And what did I learn:
Good CAN come from the ghastly. Isn't this how God works in our world.
Oh, and we also learned: Always remember to lock the kitchen window!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Dedication: Memories of a Grateful Daughter
DEDICATION
I have been accused of changing stories in the retelling. The quotes from a journal and letters are the actual words of my father, the rest is my remembering. These memories are mine. These memories are my treasure.
For Bridget, Michael, Billy and Mom
These memories
Are my treasure
Their worth is
Yet untold
My father’s
Pearls of wisdom
My mother’s
Heart of gold
I value
This my treasure
As a carpenter
His tools
Dear mother
Thoughtful father
How I love these
Priceless jewels
I have been accused of changing stories in the retelling. The quotes from a journal and letters are the actual words of my father, the rest is my remembering. These memories are mine. These memories are my treasure.
For Bridget, Michael, Billy and Mom
These memories
Are my treasure
Their worth is
Yet untold
My father’s
Pearls of wisdom
My mother’s
Heart of gold
I value
This my treasure
As a carpenter
His tools
Dear mother
Thoughtful father
How I love these
Priceless jewels
Part Eleven: Memories of a Grateful Daughter: My Mother on Self Perception.
My Mother on Self Perception
My mother is a grandmother of nine, I myself am a mother of four. We sit on my living room couch amongst the clutter of toys and books. We talk of nothing in particular. I glance down at her ankles and see an odd mix of light and dark tones in stripes across her feet and legs,
“What is that?” I ask.
“What?” Her glance follows my own.
“Did you accidentally use a self tanner as body lotion?” I ask.
“Oh, its not supposed to do that. It is guaranteed not to streak.”
“Well, it did.”
“And here I have been thinking all week everyone was staring at my gorgeous legs!”
My mother is a grandmother of nine, I myself am a mother of four. We sit on my living room couch amongst the clutter of toys and books. We talk of nothing in particular. I glance down at her ankles and see an odd mix of light and dark tones in stripes across her feet and legs,
“What is that?” I ask.
“What?” Her glance follows my own.
“Did you accidentally use a self tanner as body lotion?” I ask.
“Oh, its not supposed to do that. It is guaranteed not to streak.”
“Well, it did.”
“And here I have been thinking all week everyone was staring at my gorgeous legs!”
Part Ten: Memories of a Grateful Daughter: My Mind's Eye. My Mother on Being a Widow
My Mind’s Eye
I have my father’s journal. It has a hard cover, marbled the colors of new and old blood. In Gold letters across the top it says Record. I read of his daily activities, his worries, his thoughts. And then I come to January 20, 1987. I understand just how extraordinary a man he was.
He hated pain. He feared suffering. “God gives suffering to his best friends,” muses Mr. Blue. Despite his fear, my dad had asked for it: “What you will. Take me on a ride.”
My father’s ride had ceased. Or was it more of a pause after the long, slow Click…Click…Click to the top of the biggest hill of the roller coaster of life. The halt which is merely a pause. How long in time is impossible to gage. A lurch and then the exhilarating rush of roaring wind, the reason for the ride.
I close my eyes. I see my father as he meets God face to face. The pain is gone and an awesome, yet strangely familiar and gentle voice speaks to him, around him, through him:
“You have done well my good and faithful servant…Welcome home my faithful friend.”
My Mother on Being a Widow
We sit on that same screened in porch drinking wine. The funeral is over, and we have my wedding to plan. We have decided it is to be a joyful occasion. And it is. Our sense of grief is not a dark shadow over the preparations. There is true joy in finding the perfect flowers, the right menu, what dress she should wear. I have my dress and my veil. The Veil. I can not look at the veil without crying. My dad would have lifted the veil. We joked that it was to be his only responsibility. What am I to do about the veil? I hide it in the unused room, so I don’t have to see it. But of course I will have to see it. I ask mom how she is doing that evening in early May on the porch. She answers in a most unexpected way:
“After Daddy died, I did not want to get out of bed. But I thought of my mom and the example she had set for me after my dad died. I got out of bed because one day one of you may lose the person in the world that you love most, God forbid. I get out of bed as an example to you.”
My Father’s father will walk me down the isle. Grandpa and I have always been close, and I feel honored and blessed to be on his arm. But, I have decided, pushing back the veil was for my dad alone. I will wear it back. And for my mom, I will not cry!
I have my father’s journal. It has a hard cover, marbled the colors of new and old blood. In Gold letters across the top it says Record. I read of his daily activities, his worries, his thoughts. And then I come to January 20, 1987. I understand just how extraordinary a man he was.
He hated pain. He feared suffering. “God gives suffering to his best friends,” muses Mr. Blue. Despite his fear, my dad had asked for it: “What you will. Take me on a ride.”
My father’s ride had ceased. Or was it more of a pause after the long, slow Click…Click…Click to the top of the biggest hill of the roller coaster of life. The halt which is merely a pause. How long in time is impossible to gage. A lurch and then the exhilarating rush of roaring wind, the reason for the ride.
I close my eyes. I see my father as he meets God face to face. The pain is gone and an awesome, yet strangely familiar and gentle voice speaks to him, around him, through him:
“You have done well my good and faithful servant…Welcome home my faithful friend.”
My Mother on Being a Widow
We sit on that same screened in porch drinking wine. The funeral is over, and we have my wedding to plan. We have decided it is to be a joyful occasion. And it is. Our sense of grief is not a dark shadow over the preparations. There is true joy in finding the perfect flowers, the right menu, what dress she should wear. I have my dress and my veil. The Veil. I can not look at the veil without crying. My dad would have lifted the veil. We joked that it was to be his only responsibility. What am I to do about the veil? I hide it in the unused room, so I don’t have to see it. But of course I will have to see it. I ask mom how she is doing that evening in early May on the porch. She answers in a most unexpected way:
“After Daddy died, I did not want to get out of bed. But I thought of my mom and the example she had set for me after my dad died. I got out of bed because one day one of you may lose the person in the world that you love most, God forbid. I get out of bed as an example to you.”
My Father’s father will walk me down the isle. Grandpa and I have always been close, and I feel honored and blessed to be on his arm. But, I have decided, pushing back the veil was for my dad alone. I will wear it back. And for my mom, I will not cry!
Part Nine: Memories of a Grateful Daughter: My Father on Women. My Father on Courage
My Father on Women
He is back at his desk. He spends more time leaning back and less time writing. He is too exhausted to do anything for long. My soon to be husband has written to ask for my hand. He must respond. The entire letter is very short. But it is beautiful. It includes:
Women, I have learned, march to a beat of a different drum. I have ceased to try to fully understand them. But I assure you, if you love her, she will return your love in ways that dwarf your own.
My Father on Courage
He is dying but we do not know it. His doctor is so optimistic and we have been here, in the hospital, before. There are whispers among the nurses and warnings to prepare given to us from friends. We reject them. I am, however, afraid he is giving up. If he gives up, he could die. It is time I intervene. I state my case that it is unacceptable to me that he lose his will to live:
“I know I have duty to you and your siblings and mom. I know that, and I am not giving up... But I am tired.”
I give a short dissertation on the merits of suffering. I recall stories of saints, examples of trials and the glory they bring, the cross, the virtues anything I can think of. I am not preaching. I think this, a reminder of the faith he loves, the saints he admires, will bring comfort.
He looks at me and I am given a gift. His eyes, his voice, and his words. He is showing me his vulnerability. My rock. My sounding board. My father trusts in my love enough to let me share in his fear:
“But those, those are saints,” he says, “ I am just an ordinary man. I am afraid to suffer.”
“You are not ordinary, Dad. Not to me.”
I hold his hand, and he looks at me with wonder. I know he is remembering the long years of tension. His mind’s eye sees the defiant, mean spirited teen. He recalls the sharp toughed, irrational ravings from the past.
“Where did you come from?” he asks.
I laugh through my tears, “From you Pop, you old dust mop, from you“…I am I because of you…
He is back at his desk. He spends more time leaning back and less time writing. He is too exhausted to do anything for long. My soon to be husband has written to ask for my hand. He must respond. The entire letter is very short. But it is beautiful. It includes:
Women, I have learned, march to a beat of a different drum. I have ceased to try to fully understand them. But I assure you, if you love her, she will return your love in ways that dwarf your own.
My Father on Courage
He is dying but we do not know it. His doctor is so optimistic and we have been here, in the hospital, before. There are whispers among the nurses and warnings to prepare given to us from friends. We reject them. I am, however, afraid he is giving up. If he gives up, he could die. It is time I intervene. I state my case that it is unacceptable to me that he lose his will to live:
“I know I have duty to you and your siblings and mom. I know that, and I am not giving up... But I am tired.”
I give a short dissertation on the merits of suffering. I recall stories of saints, examples of trials and the glory they bring, the cross, the virtues anything I can think of. I am not preaching. I think this, a reminder of the faith he loves, the saints he admires, will bring comfort.
He looks at me and I am given a gift. His eyes, his voice, and his words. He is showing me his vulnerability. My rock. My sounding board. My father trusts in my love enough to let me share in his fear:
“But those, those are saints,” he says, “ I am just an ordinary man. I am afraid to suffer.”
“You are not ordinary, Dad. Not to me.”
I hold his hand, and he looks at me with wonder. I know he is remembering the long years of tension. His mind’s eye sees the defiant, mean spirited teen. He recalls the sharp toughed, irrational ravings from the past.
“Where did you come from?” he asks.
I laugh through my tears, “From you Pop, you old dust mop, from you“…I am I because of you…
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Part Eight: Memories of a Grateful Daughter: My Father on the Will of God/My Mother on the Church
My Father on the Will of God
Where did the cancer come from? Stress and genetics surely were foot soldiers in the attack. But who is the general? What is his strategy for victory? If we knew, my mother and I, we could plan our defenses. I will later find an entry in my father’s journal that tells me he knew all along:
January 20, 1987
…I have attended daily mass for some time. At one point I felt close to God and I wanted to put myself completely in his hands. I was surprised to find my self recoil. I was afraid that I would be taken on a journey filled with pain and uncertainty. Those that God loves, he purges, I thought. That means pain. I had no stomach for that. I found myself saying not yet God - Your ways make no sense and they are painful, I am ready to be comfortable. But then I let go and said “What You will. Take me on a ride. I’ll try to hang on. “ Now I wonder if I can...
My Mother on the Church
She stands at the sink peeling potatoes. Bing Crosby sings from the stereo in the next room. I sit at the kitchen table working on my lesson plans. We talk of the New Catechism of the Catholic Church. She pauses in her peeling and looks out the window into the back yard. At one time, she would have seen a swing set. It was painted in animal print and the top of the slide was a cage. It had double bars where the swings hung down. I would walk across them playing circus. I had always wanted to be a circus acrobat. Now I was teaching high school students, a circus of sorts. Was she thinking of earlier days? Was she worrying about herself? Dad? She begins to peel again and says:
After Vatican II , many Catholics were disillusioned. Things they felt were central to their faith had been taken away from them, and many responded with resentment. Grandma Foley, however, responded with a child like obedience and a sense of peace. It was a wonderful example to me. I always remember her saying, “You are Never better than your church.“
Where did the cancer come from? Stress and genetics surely were foot soldiers in the attack. But who is the general? What is his strategy for victory? If we knew, my mother and I, we could plan our defenses. I will later find an entry in my father’s journal that tells me he knew all along:
January 20, 1987
…I have attended daily mass for some time. At one point I felt close to God and I wanted to put myself completely in his hands. I was surprised to find my self recoil. I was afraid that I would be taken on a journey filled with pain and uncertainty. Those that God loves, he purges, I thought. That means pain. I had no stomach for that. I found myself saying not yet God - Your ways make no sense and they are painful, I am ready to be comfortable. But then I let go and said “What You will. Take me on a ride. I’ll try to hang on. “ Now I wonder if I can...
My Mother on the Church
She stands at the sink peeling potatoes. Bing Crosby sings from the stereo in the next room. I sit at the kitchen table working on my lesson plans. We talk of the New Catechism of the Catholic Church. She pauses in her peeling and looks out the window into the back yard. At one time, she would have seen a swing set. It was painted in animal print and the top of the slide was a cage. It had double bars where the swings hung down. I would walk across them playing circus. I had always wanted to be a circus acrobat. Now I was teaching high school students, a circus of sorts. Was she thinking of earlier days? Was she worrying about herself? Dad? She begins to peel again and says:
After Vatican II , many Catholics were disillusioned. Things they felt were central to their faith had been taken away from them, and many responded with resentment. Grandma Foley, however, responded with a child like obedience and a sense of peace. It was a wonderful example to me. I always remember her saying, “You are Never better than your church.“
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