Why you do NOT have the right to use the word RETARD

I think there is a gross misunderstanding of the first amendment.

Now I am not a lawyer, but I can read, and this seems pretty clear to me:

"Amendment I
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."


This says that congress cannot create laws that prevent the free expression of ideas.  It does not say you have the right to call people names or belittle or demean them.  It does not say that you are not liable for your words.  The first amendment in no way relieves you of responsibility for the words you choose.

You do not have the right to use language with malice. You have the right not to have the government restrict your use of language with malice.

You do not have the right to keep your job.

You do not have the right to release of liability from slander.

You do not have the right to release of liability from any resulting damage.

And you do not have the right to stand unconfronted. 

And I promise you; I will confront you.

Mysterious Ways

Years ago, after Jimmie had first been diagnosed, I began to spend a lot of time on My Space.  One day, I got a message from a young woman from my hometown.  She was the younger sister of one of my high school graduating classmates.  I happily returned her message and we began a series of Internet conversations.

It was revealed that she was the best friend of a very dear friend of mine who had been killed in a horrific car accident while I was away at college.  She explained to me her part in the accident.  She had been Shelly's alibi, so to speak.  Shelly was still in high school and had been forbidden to see the boy who had been at the wheel that fateful night.  Christal had lied to Shelly's parents, saying that Shelly was spending the night at her house so that Shelly could go out with the boy.  She told me this with a great deal of trepidation.  I believe she was holding onto a great deal of guilt.  I think she, knowing how close I had been to Shelly as well, believed I would hold her guilty too.  Instead, I met her confession with compassion and forgiveness.  I told her that she had been wrong, but that she had also been a child.  It ended tragically.  But the tragedy wasn't her fault.  Over 20 years had passed.  I told her that the Lord forgives when we ask, and all that is left is for us to forgive ourselves.

As our conversations progressed, Christal asked more about Jimmie.  She asked about his condition.  She asked how we (my husband and I) dealt with such a devastating diagnosis.  I told her that I simply give it to the Lord.  The Lord gives us the life he intends us to live.  It is not for us to question it, but to simply live it.  You just DO.  We never really understand what the Lord's plan is until he reveals it.  It is all in his time.  And I believe in the power of prayer.  Prayer strengthens us.  Even if it doesn't seem to change anything, it changes us.  I told her to read the Book of Job.  Through all our trials, the Lord never abandons us.  We should never abandon him. 

She asked.  I answered.

I never preached.  I just answered.

A few years passed.  Christal and I remained in contact, but not as closely.

Then one day, I received a letter.  The letter thanked me (and a few others) for our support and guidance at a difficult time in Christal's life, a time of addiction and loss and darkness.  Christal told me in that letter that I (and others) had been an instrument of the Lord in turning her back to God and helping her to dedicate her life to the Lord.  I was floored.  I was awestruck.  I was honored.  I was humbled.  I had no idea.  I promise you I take no credit.  It was purely the work of the Lord.  She asked.  I answered.  That's all.  That my answers to her questions were among some of the answers that she sought had more to do with God than with me.  She continues to thank me on occasion.  I continue to say it had little to do with me, but I feel immensely proud of her and thankful that I was of use.  I never would have known at all had she not sent me that letter.

Today, Christal is a member of a new Church family.  She is married.  She has a renewed and invigorated relationship with her children.  And she is the author of a new book.  Way to "do" Christal.  You "do" great.   Here is the link to her website and  how to get her book:
http://www.christalware.com/

My Knight in Shining Armor

Yesterday was Father's Day.  My husband enjoyed a day of doing nothing except watching golf.  He received his cards, both the store bought and the handmade.  We played a piggy game where piggies are thrown instead of dice.  Charlie won both times and was ecstatic!  Daddy gave the boys baths.  And by the end of the day, Daddy was a little frisky.

There are times when he is a bigger child than the kids.  And he likes to rough house.  Nothing wrong with that.  He is a big BOY after all.  And boys will be boys.

He decided to bite Charlie's butt.  This particular form of rough housing freaked Charlie out a little bit.  It must be remembered that Charlie is only 4.  When his Daddy let him up, Charlie ran to me crying (completely unhurt of course, just freaked out).  But Daddy being the big child he is, didn't get that the game had gone too far, and continued to threaten to bite Charlie's butt.  David was having a grand time.  Charlie, not so much.

But my heart swelled to proportions unforeseen when David threatened to bite my butt, and Charlie, as fearful as he was, bristled, puffed out his chest, and turned to face his father and told him in no uncertain terms, "NO!  Do not bite Mommy's butt!"   I saw my 4 year old taking on a dragon to protect me!

My hero!

Kisses

BEST MOMENT EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Jimmie has been very loving toward me all evening, showering me in kisses and hugs. So at a certain point, David says, "Hey Jimmie," and leaned his head down and pointed to the top of his head. Jimmie looked at him for a second, then puckered up and kissed his father's head. It was the first time I had seen Jimmie ever respond to any kind of a request. So I decided to test it further. I said, "Jimmie, give Charlie a kiss." Jimmie ignored me. I got a hold of him and Charlie, standing in front of me. I said, "Jimmie, give Charlie a kiss." He tried to pull away. I held his shirt, and said, "No. Stay. Give Charlie a kiss." David said, 'No it's okay." But Jimmie looked at Charlie, who smiled at him, and puckered up, leaned in, and kissed Charlie on the nose!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Black eye peas for a prosperous New Year

It's true.  It actually is a tradition.  Black eye peas for a prosperous New Year.  And it has been passed along down from our line out of Tennessee.  It is a Southern thing after all.  I've read that it started during the civil war.  I only know that my mother (whose mother was a Ford - and yes one of those Fords - those two brothers who murdered Jessie James were her great uncles) had to have them every New Year's day.  It was as much a part of our celebration as watching the ball fall the night before.  And I am a stern taskmaster of keeping tradition.  My husband refuses to eat them.  Fine.  I'll take all the prosperity for myself.  Besides I actually like them.

This year, I am going whole hog (so to speak).  I actually bought the dried bag of black eye peas.  Yesterday, I cooked a delicious honey glazed ham.  Tonight, the beans and the ham bone will go in the crock pot with some onion and celery and chicken stock for a nice long simmer.  I defy anyone to not want to eat these black eye peas.  Yum. 

Crochet

I miss my mother so very much.  She was a great mother.  She cooked.  She sewed.  She crocheted. 

Every fall, I catch the bug, but this winter I really caught the bug.  If I am sitting, I am crocheting.  I have made 20 or so hats.  I have made several scarfs.  I have made an afghan as a gift for a baby (leaving it at that since it is for Christmas).  I have made Jimmie an afghan.  I am working on one for Charlie.  I have another one in the works too.  And today, I started yet another.

This one gives me a special connection to my mother.

In 1998 my mother was diagnosed with interstitial lung disease, a complication of her scleroderma.  She was given a 50% chance of surviving beyond 5 years.  She lasted the 5, passing in 2003, just two weeks after my wedding.

It was not a pleasant death.  She was in a lot of pain.  She was tired a lot.   And she couldn't breathe.  In the end she was on oxygen 24 hours a day and had to use a chair because she couldn't exert herself to walk.

On a visit from my aunt in the last two years before she passed, they sat and crocheted.  Crochet did not tire her.  My mother worked on an afghan intended as a gift for my cousin Joey and his wife, who at the time were expecting their first child.  It was beautiful.  Reversible, peach on one side; cream on the other.

My lovely sister in law gave me a baby shower when I was pregnant with my son Jimmie, before my world fell a part.  My aunt and cousins were naturally unable to attend, living in Massachusetts, while we are in Illinois.  But they surprised me by sending gifts to my sister in law for the shower.  Included among the gifts, intended as a gift from my mother, my aunt had sent the afghan, retrieved from my cousin, unused.  It was the gift that caused the tears to flow, especially as I read the note my aunt had included.  And as I cried, so did the entire room.

The afghan is an important item in our household.  My husband loves it as much as I do.  And the more I crochet, the more my husband points to it and says, "Make one like that."

Well here is my first attempt:

The Voice

I was reminded this morning of two experiences.  The first was easy.  It was a simple experience of love.  Love for me.  Love is easy to receive.  The second was difficult, because while there was love, there was also disappointment and judgement and a revelation of self that was not so pleasant.  I believe I needed to be reminded of these things. 

The first time I heard the voice, I was in college, home on break.  I was in a crisis of faith.  I was aware that the feeling I had had as a young teenager, of the presence of the Lord in my life, had faded.  As I lay in my bed and prayed, I asked the Lord where he was, why I could no longer feel him.  It was then that I heard the voice.  It was familiar.  A real voice.  And at the same time, not a real voice.  I knew that while it was audible, it was only audible to me.  It came from inside me, but also around me.  It told me to listen.  But I was stubborn.  The voice became more insistent.  It called me by name.  "Lacy, Stop.  Listen."  I stopped.  I listened.  My radio was on.  Stryper was playing.  "Honestly."  

[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/s/stryper/honestly.html ]

Songwriters: MICHAEL SWEET

Honestly
I believe in you
Do you trust in me?
...

Patiently
I will stand by you
I will stand beside you faithfully

And through the years
I will be a friend for always and forever

Call on me and I'll be there for you
I'm a friend who always will be true
And I love you can't you see
That I can say I love you honestly

Call on me and I will be there for you
I'm a friend who will always be true
And I love you can't you see
That I love you honestly
I will never betray your trust in me
And I love you can't you see
That I can say I love you
Honestly

 

At the moment I was asking "Where are you?" the song answered "I will stand beside you faithfully."  I just had to listen.  The answer was there. 

 

It was a sweet moment.  A moment of renewal of faith.  It was good.  But as wonderful as this moment was, it was not the moment that changed my life, that changed me as a person.

 

That moment would not be so pleasant.

 

Several years later, after I had graduated, after I had tried living in Norfolk, after I had tried living in Canada, after I had returned home, I was working as a temp in Washington, DC, trying to make ends meet, living at home with my mother and stepfather, driving a wrecked car my father had given me, driving on change and a prayer.  It had been a long day.  Those who know DC know that there is a large homeless population.  A very aggressive population.  They beg.  And they rarely use the money for food or shelter, preferring to feed their addictions.  Of course this isn't always true (again years later, I would be approached by a homeless man in DC who asked me for money when I had none, and whose gratitude was abounding when I offered a coupon for a free burger from McDonald's instead). 

 

But on the day in question, all I saw in the beggars were junkies and drunks.  As I was sitting in traffic, trying to cross the 14th street bridge into VA, I saw him.  He was a young man.  Early thirties.  He was dirty.  Long brown hair.  Beard.  He stood at the center of the bridge, in front of the jersey barriers separating the opposing lanes of traffic.  Hands outstretched to each side.  He had a sign leaning against his bucket sitting at his feet.  I don't remember what the sign said.  Something about will work for food or being homeless and needing money.   I gave a judgemental snort.  "Oh look at this, it's Jesus Christ."  It was an ugly moment.  I am not proud of it.  But that is what I thought at that moment. 

 

And then I heard the voice.  Deep, masculine, loving, and disappointed.  Kind still.  Loving still.  But clearly disappointed.  Again, it was audible, but not audible.  I knew that had anyone else been in the car, they would not have heard it.  It came from inside me, not my head, but my gut.  And it came from around me, behind me, beside me.  I actually heard it.  But I also felt it.

 

He said, "Lacy, as you have done unto these the least of my brethren, so you have done unto me." 

 

I felt the tears welling up inside me.  I was a monster.  I was evil. 

 

I rolled down my window as I approached the man on the bridge.  He smiled and approached my window.  He reached out his hand.  I dumped my purse into my lap and gathered all the money I had left, change, and placed it in his open hand.  I allowed my hands to touch his.  I felt the tingle and electricity shoot through my fingers to my very core.

 

"God bless you," he said.  I can't tell you it was the same voice.  I can't say that with absolute confidence.  But in my memory, it was the same voice I heard speaking to me alone in my car.  Whether I heard it the same or whether it was the same or I only remember it as the same is not really the point. 

 

Judge not, and love one another.  My moment of hatred, answered with love and a blessing on me, that was the moment of change.  It was not easy to feel the judgement that I deserved.  Honestly it wasn't even a small portion of what I deserved, but any judgement was just.  The fact that it was tapered with love and grace only cements our Lord's saving nature.