Author Archives: The Night Writer

FEMA, Bush hate North Dakotans

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The following was forwarded to me, but I haven’t been able to verify or attribute the source. It refers to this event, which occurred October 4-6.

For those of you who are not aware, North Dakota and southwestern Montana got hit with their first blizzard of the season a couple of weeks ago. This message is in from a county emergency manager out in the western part of North Dakota state after the storm:

WEATHER BULLETIN
Up here in the Northern Plains we just recovered from a Historic event — may I even say a “weather event” of “Biblical Proportions” — with a historic blizzard of up to 24 inches of snow and winds to 50 mph that broke trees in half, stranded hundreds of motorists in lethal snow banks, closed all roads, isolated scores of communities and cut power to tens of thousands.

George Bush did not come…
FEMA staged nothing…
No one howled for the government…
No one even uttered an expletive on TV…
Nobody demanded $2,000 debit cards…
No one asked for a FEMA trailer house…
No news anchors moved in.

We just melted snow for water, sent out caravans to pluck people out of snow engulfed cars, fired up wood stoves, broke out coal oil lanterns or Aladdin lamps and put on extra layers of clothes.

Even though a Category “5” blizzard of this scale has never fallen this early — we know it can happen and how to deal with it ourselves.

Everybody is fine.

No obvious jokes about global warming, please.

Close to home

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After working in corporate America for a couple of decades I’m used to seeing Dilbert cartoons that eerily depict something that actually happened in my company the day before. Today’s “Pearls Before Swine” cartoon by Steven Pastis, however, strikes especially close to home for Twin Cities readers, where we “enjoy” an evening radio talk show called “Krok Talk”.


(click to enlarge)

I’d say Pastis nailed it perfectly.

Filings: Sunday School dropouts?

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Former Minnesota governor and professional wrestler Jesse Ventura was once quoted as saying that religion was a sham and something for the weak minded. I think the best response to this statement came from Jay Leno who commented that it’s a good thing nobody ever said that about professional wrestling.



Da Guv later amended his words somewhat saying that the people he really thinks are weak-minded are the “wackos and fundamentalists,” not the “typical” religious folks. Of course, Jesse – like the Devil and the StarTribune – are most useful when you just take it for granted that the opposite of what he says is closer to the truth.



The truly weak-minded are the ones whose convictions are easily swayed or intimidated, or those who really don’t know what they believe in the first place. After all, which is harder – to go with the flow (or the latest poll on what’s right or wrong), or to hold fast to what you’ve seen and experienced to be true when to do so is said to be unpopular or controversial?



Sometimes I wonder how an ostensibly “Christian nation” can tolerate – or even embrace – thinking and actions that are clearly ungodly. A large part of this perception is probably due to the fact that – except in unusual or extreme cases – events that show there is an active and interested God don’t make it into the news, and even when they do they are twisted or incomplete.



I think the real problem, however — and the reason why ungodliness is unwittingly celebrated — is ignorance. In our society a high school education is considered to be the bare minimum necessary to succeed. Spiritually, much of our “Christian” nation seems to be Sunday School dropouts. They have poor study skills and even less comprehension. The knowledge many have about what is really in the Bible may even be dwarfed by the number of things they think are in the Bible but really aren’t. No surprise then when policy is based on poll rather than principle. And no wonder that the best that so many can do when they struggle to come up with a spiritual answer for something they don’t understand is to say “the Lord moves in mysterious ways.” It’s only mysterious when we don’t know what the Word says!

And he made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ… (Ephesians 1:9)



It’s when I take my eyes off of the big picture, however, and focus on my life and the lives of those around me that I see just how tangible an impact Jesus Christ really is having. I know what’s happened in my life, and I know the testimonies of others who have sought and discovered what God’s will is for them in many areas. Therein is the hope for our world, for no lasting large-scale change can happen without the hearts of individuals being changed first.



The breakthroughs I see come in the lives of those who have permitted themselves to be discipled and who have committed to disciple others. While there’s no downplaying the importance of evangelism (how will they know, unless you go?), I think discipleship is just as important (how will they grow, unless you show?). Christians have a joint obligation to both learn from others and to help others learn. It is important to “study to show yourself approved of God” [2 Tim 2:15], but the breakthroughs in my life in healing, finances, and relationships have occurred not just when I’ve read the Word, but when I’ve also had it explained and seen it lived out. Furthermore, I’ve seen my breakthroughs get turbo-charged when I’ve helped someone apply in his life what I’ve learned in my life.



No matter where we are spiritually, there’s always someone who knows more than us, and always someone who knows less – and we need both in our lives. Furthermore, our world needs it. I know there’s lot of prayer going up for our nation, our government and for God’s will to be manifested, and I believe these prayers are and will be effective. I also believe that some of the fruit of these prayers, however, occurs when we move ourselves away from our pride and/or our self-interest and admit, first of all, that we need help and then – perhaps even harder – admit we have what it takes to help someone else.

They regret that they have but one afternoon to give to their country

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In reading around the blogosphere today I saw an interesting juxtaposition between two different stories. The effect is so surreal I can picture Johnny Depp, as Willie Wonka, saying the following:

“Welcome to today’s protest, children. Will you be wanting consequences with that action, or not?”

First, an excerpt from Shot in the Dark (Mitch Berg’s comments in italics):

This is from an email sent to local pro-Dictatorship groups:

Urgent solidarity needed! [I love that – “Urgent Solidarity”. What’s the next level down – “Laconic Solidarity?” – Ed.]

Students are being threatened with failing classes for walking out on November 2nd

*** Help mobilize our defense! ***

As of October 19th, nearly 1,000 high school students across the Twin Cities had signed the “November 2nd Walkout Pledge,” and we expect that number of grow substantially in the remaining 12 days before November 2nd. This tremendous response to Youth Against War and Racism’s call to action has taken place in the face of threats to fail students who miss tests that day.

Wow – a thousand high school kids signed a pledge to…get out of school for a day?

Wow! This must be serious!

By an unfortunate coincidence, many Twin Cities schools scheduled a finals day on November 2nd, the anniversary of Bush’s “reelection” [A “re-election that, ironically, happened on the same day as his re-election! – Ed] and the day chosen for nationally coordinated student walkouts against the war and military recruitment in schools. But other students who miss class that day for reasons school administrators deem legitimate will not fail their classes. They will get to take a make-up final.

Right. Because skipping school to go to a bogus political rally is not a legitimate reason.

Is it too much to ask that anti-war students who choose to participate in this justified act of protest, who are taking action to secure a decent future for our generation, also be given make-up tests?

No, the students who are demonstrating to return Iraqi and Afghan children their age to the Sixth Century would be asking a bit much for this sort of special treatment.

Let’s hope this goes on their permanent record so they can look back on it someday and slap themselves, really hard, on the forehead. Meanwhile, in the real world, Varifrank notes:

More than 20 members of Cuba’s world-famous national chorus are singing songs of freedom today after defecting in Toronto.

Members of the National Chorus of Cuba dodged security officers and jumped into waiting cars, some on Sunday and others yesterday, said Cuban exiles who planned the defections.

“These people are scared for their lives,” said Ismail Sambra, president of the Cuban Canadian Foundation. “They are worried about their families back home”. (Why should they be worried? Uncle Fidel and revolutionary party are merciful, are they not?)

Hmmm, I wonder if they chose to defect in Canada instead of the U.S. because of the school systems?

Reason, facts gone with the wind?

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The Missing Link isn’t just bedeviling evolutionary theory, but could be a problem for those trying to connect increased hurricane activity with global warming. As this National Center article by David Ridenour describes, the global warming/hurricane link may just be hot air:

An August article in the San Francisco Chronicle warned, “As the United States experiences more… out-of-season hurricanes like this summer’s, more Americans will recognize what the rest of the world has long accepted: Global warming is here, it will get worse…”1

This analysis has a critical flaw: The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) says the hurricane season runs from June 1 to November 30.2

That would make summer hurricanes in-season, wouldn’t it?

And there’s another little problem with the Chronicle warning: Much of the global warming that occurred during the last century occurred from 1900-1940, followed by a cooling period that lasted from about 1940 to 1975.

A comparison of hurricane severity against the warming/cooling trends finds that we had an above average number of hurricanes in the 50s and 60s – when the Earth was cooling.

Hurricane severity is governed by a natural Atlantic Ocean temperature cycle that lasts decades. Following the identified pattern, Atlantic hurricanes were especially prevalent in the 1950s and 1960s, were less so from about 1970 to 1994, and, since 1995, have been prevalent again.3

Talk of a link between global warming and increased incidence of hurricanes is just hot air, nothing more.

As Christopher W. Landsea, a scientist with NOAA’s Hurricane Research Division, has noted, “It is highly unlikely that global warming has (or will) contribute to a drastic change in the number and intensity of hurricanes.”

Landsea found that the number of intense hurricanes (those reaching Saffir-Simpson scale ratings of 3, 4, or 5) actually decreased in the Atlantic during the 1970s and 1980s.4 And from 1991 to 1994, the Atlantic had fewer hurricanes than any four-year period on record, with an average of less than four hurricanes per year.5

The article shows that while there has been more activity the last couple of years, the most severe storms have been in the past. The most intense hurricanes according to barometric pressure were the Labor Day hurricane of 1935 and Hurricane Camille in 1969 (Katrina is third). If you go by wind speed at landfall, Camille, Andrew (1992) and the 1935 hurricane were the worst. In terms of lives lost, the Galveston Hurricane (1900) and Okeechobee Hurricane (1928) were more more devastating than Katrina (it could be argued on this count that there was less warning in the 1900 and 1928 hurricanes which may have contributed to higher death tolls; as Katrina showed, however, having plenty of warning may be of limited value).

There is also evidence that warmer weather may actually reduce hurricane activity.

Even if the planet does eventually warm, it’s not clear that either the incidence or intensity of hurricanes would increase.

Patrick Michaels, a research professor in environmental sciences at the University of Virginia, has noted, “Atlantic hurricanes are much more delicate than their destruction suggests. One thing they cannot tolerate is a west wind blowing into them because it wrecks their symmetry. As a result, their maximum winds decline.”9

These are precisely the conditions that exist during El Ninos – weather phenomena that some scientists believe increase with rising global temperatures.

If they are right, this would mean that global warming might be expected to result in less severe hurricanes.

Other studies suggest that higher global temperatures would also result in fewer hurricanes.

A 1990 study of temperature data by Drs. Robert Balling, Sherwood Idso and Randall Cerveny spanning 41 years found that the warmest years had fewer hurricane days, on average, than the coldest years.

These findings are consistent with the earlier historical record. The most severe storms in the North Sea, for example, occurred during the 15th and 16th centuries, after the onset of the Little Ice Age.10

Nature, not man-made global warming, causes hurricanes.

My father has been known to describe certain people as being “Windier than a sackful of…” well, I won’t use that kind of language on this blog. The description may be more than apt in describing the warming-mongers who may be more interested in “cause and elect” than “cause and effect.”

Follow the link and read the entire article (HT: Amy Ridenour). An interesting and humorous historical analysis can also be found here.

Are they sure it wasn’t pining for the fjords?

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British say dead parrot had bird flu strain that has migrated from Asia to Europe

There doesn’t appear to be any doubt that this particular parrot contracted the H5N1 virus, but consensus hasn’t always been easy to reach with the British. You may recall the classic Monty Python “Dead Parrot” sketch where Mr. Praline tried to return a recently purchased, but deceased, “Norwegian Blue” parrot to the pet shop owner who insisted it was merely “resting”:

Mr. Praline: Um…now look…now look, mate, I’ve definitely ‘ad enough of this. That parrot is definitely deceased, and when I purchased it not ‘alf an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it bein’ tired and shagged out following a prolonged squawk.

Owner: Well, he’s…he’s, ah…probably pining for the fjords.

Mr. Praline: PININ’ for the FJORDS?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that?, look, why did he fall flat on his back the moment I got ‘im home?

Owner: The Norwegian Blue prefers keepin’ on it’s back! Remarkable bird, id’nit, squire? Lovely plumage!

Mr. Praline: Look, I took the liberty of examining that parrot when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it had been NAILED there.

Owner:(pause)Well, o’course it was nailed there! If I hadn’t nailed that bird down, it would have nuzzled up to those bars, bent ‘em apart with its beak, and VOOM! Feeweeweewee!

Mr. Praline: “VOOM”?!? Mate, this bird wouldn’t “voom” if you put four million volts through it! ‘E’s bleedin’ demised!

Owner: No no! ‘E’s pining!

Mr. Praline: ‘E’s not pinin’! ‘E’s passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! ‘E’s expired and gone to meet ‘is maker! ‘E’s a stiff! Bereft of life, ‘e rests in peace! If you hadn’t nailed ‘im to the perch ‘e’d be pushing up the daisies! ‘Is metabolic processes are now ‘istory! ‘E’s off the twig! ‘E’s kicked the bucket, ‘e’s shuffled off ‘is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!

Read the entire sketch here.

Getting ready

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Some Saturday reflections:

It has been a terrific fall season this year with fair weather extending well into October. This afternoon brings more bright sun and temperatures in the 50s, along with that distinctively crisp smell of autumn that quickens one’s awareness of needing to get ready for winter. I am circuiting my front yard on the riding tractor, the mulching deck doing it’s thing on the leaves. It’s a large front yard with four good-sized maples that drop soft, leathery leaves nearly the size of my face. There are also a couple of birches on the property that drop yellow, trowel-shaped leaves that are small and a real pain to rake. If I’m careful to act before the leaf fall gets too deep I can stay ahead of the leaves with the mulcher, even though I’ll need to repeat the route at least once more in the next few days to get what’s still hanging from the branches.

I spent the earlier part of the afternoon taking care of another important preparation for winter, that of buying my youngest a new winter coat. The selection of colors in the store wasn’t as vibrant as what I’m seeing now, but it was unmistakably autumn all the same and there was a certain warm satisfaction in being able to manage this assignment. When I got home the yard was calling and the late afternoon sun was perfect jeans and sweatshirt weather.

Now the sun is lower in the sky and the trees and the neighbors houses cast shadows. As I move back and forth through the patches of light and shade I alternately feel a little too warm and a little too cool. As the afternoon slips away the shadowed section gets larger but it still feels good being outdoors. The extended mild weather has given us extra time to prepare for winter: taking down awnings, putting up storm windows, caulking those suspect seams around the cupola over the music room window and on one of the roof vents, cleaning out the flower beds. No reason we couldn’t have gotten to these little projects sooner, but we just didn’t – there’s always so much else to do when the days are longer. When the first nip enters the air, however, you know time is short and you’ve got to pay attention.

I’ve got the tractor in a low gear with the blade speed set as high as it will go to mulch the leaves as thoroughly as I can. It’s slow going, but I figure it’s still better than raking and bagging. My methodical progress doesn’t take a lot of concentration so I think about how much I love this time of year, and then on to where I might be in that “May to December” continuum that Frank Sinatra sang about in “September Song.” I don’t think I’m that old, but I’ve had my “June” — and “July” and “August” seem kind of blurry to me. My mind naturally goes back a couple of weeks to my long-awaited examination at the heart clinic. The visit stemmed from a mysterious episode back in August when I had felt a strange pressure on one side of my chest, but with no other telltale symptoms. A visit to the ER turned up nothing but a hefty bill and the advice to get further testing done. Kind of like my fall chores, I had put off getting that testing done for one reason or another even though, like my fall chores, I knew I was eventually going to have to do it.

When I had finally gone in I was injected with a thallium tracer and put inside a machine that rotated an x-ray camera around my torso both before and after a treadmill stress test. When that was finished I’d then had an ultrasound where the technician let me watch my own heart and its valves beat and listen as the amplified sound of my blood swishing filled the room. It hadn’t happened that quickly, of course, as I spent nearly three hours at the clinic and moved from room to room. During that time I couldn’t help but notice that almost all my fellow patients were much older than I and moved with much greater deliberation.

Sitting on my lawn tractor it feels as if it’s moving at about the same pace as those older folks and I think about how much I’ve taken my own mobility and energy for granted. That’s not to say there aren’t mornings when I wake up feeling as if I’m 60 (or what I imagine 60 to feel like, since I’ve never been that old), and I use reading glasses (which I’m always forgetting to bring to restaurants where it seems I need them the most), and thanks to the knee surgeries I’ve reached an accommodation with my body on certain activities (I’m riding a mower instead of pushing one, after all), but I still pretty much do the things I want to do. Yet I remember the sensation this past summer when the realization sunk in that I’m probably never going to play in a softball league again. One hour of running aggravates my knee for a week, so I haven’t played for years. Somehow, however, I always had the thought in the back of my head that maybe next year it’ll be better. This summer I sat in the bleachers and watched that ship sail off across the outfield.

The results of my heart tests came back the other day and everything was normal. I’m relieved, of course, and a bit miffed at having taken the trouble and expense, but also happy that at least I know where I stand — or, in today’s activity — where I sit. In a way, the tests were for me like one of those fall chores; a chance to snug things up before winter gets here. Like the summer, I’ve taken my health for granted but the nip in the air, like the chill of the stethoscope, reminds me that there are things I need to do before it really gets cold.

The yard is almost finished and there’s only a few strips worth of leaves to pass over, and only a small corner still in the sun. My bare fingers are feeling a little cold on the wheel. If it were February and they felt this cold I’d probably complain, but for now the weather is good and the promise of hot coffee when I finish makes the sensation even pleasureable. I make the last pass and head for the shed. Winter is coming.

Addressing dressing

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I must be creeping up on “old coot” status given my topic yesterday and what’s on my mind today, but I’m going to go with it anyway.

There has been a bit of a flap the last couple of days about the NBA’s new dress code for players when they are on “league business” which includes road trips, traveling to and from the arena, being interviewed and sitting on the bench in street clothes. Some players and commentators have complained that this is a racist policy since some of the apparel that is expressly banned are the hats, medallions and jerseys associated with the “hip-hop” culture and more frequently sported by black and minority players.

On the face of it they would appear to have a point; if the league were to, say, ban plaid pants, Izod shirts and deck shoes there might be a group of players who felt they were being singled out. Furthermore, I’m a big fan of personal liberty and I seek out the kinds of clothes that make me comfortable when working in the office or my back yard or hanging out.

The players are making a mistake in this case, however, and it’s a mistake that is all too prevalent throughout our culture and not just the NBA, which is why I’m bothering to write about it. The mistake the players are making is thinking that it’s all about them when it’s really all about business. In the scenarios covered by the dress code the players are “on the job” and representing the league and their respective teams.

While it may be ironic to require dressy clothes in a business where the official uniform involves baggy shorts and tank tops, the league has a – shall we say, “vested” – interest in having its players look more professional in the corporate sense since most of the money that pours into the league has corporate connections. While corporations are themselves dressing more casually these days, the salespeople at my company wouldn’t dream of calling on a customer without dressing appropriately as a sign of respect for the people who we want to give us their money. What it boils down to when entering the boardroom or leaving the locker-room is wearing clothes that say “I care what other people think.” Fundamentally it is a question of respect; something that many of the players should identify with because they insist upon (as they should) when other people are dealing with them.

This is the same issue that I see with many people in our culture today. Case in point: last weekend I went to a wedding of some young friends of mine. While a wedding is a happy occasion there is also a certain solemnity to the event. That afternoon I finished working in my yard, went inside and cleaned up and put on slacks, dress shirt, sport coat and a tie. Almost all of the young people at the wedding and reception (with the notable exception of my own children) looked as if they had simply put down their rakes and come directly to the ceremony. I’m not talking humble but clean clothes here; I’m talking blue jeans, wrinkled tee-shirts, sometimes covered by rumpled, unbuttoned work shirts. Oh, there were three young ladies wearing flamboyant prom dresses, meaning they knew it was a special occasion, but were unaware that it’s bad form to be flashier than the bride.

I wasn’t that offended given that it could have been worse, but I did feel sad that a significant portion of the generations coming up are either not hearing, or not receiving, guidance on how to act respectfully when it is required. Dress isn’t the be all and end all of course as there are some people where you can dress ’em up but you still can’t take them anywhere, but the same attitude demonstrated by these young people in their attire also carried over in other behavior. Almost invariably, for example, these youths continued to talk and cavort with each other during the prayers and various toasts to the new couple.

Granted, I came from the flower-power generation that codified the blue-jeaned, bathing-optional look and style. I also had not a few disagreements with my parents on what I wore. Rather than marking me as idealistic and down-to-earth, however, my philosophy then merely indicated my callowness. I don’t write this to glorify insincerity or saying we should judge books by their cover. My point is that the essence of getting along is to get over our “me first” attitude and think about how our actions and attire convey our attitude toward others.

Yeah, yeah, I know: I’m just proving that I’m getting old. But really, I’m not that old. It’s just that I’ve learned …. excuse me for a second –

HEY, YOU KIDS! GET OUT OF MY YARD OR I’M CALLING THE COPS!

Curses!

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Heck is for people who don’t believe in Gosh.

So says a magnet on a shelf in my office at work. I use the magnet to cover the pointy tip of a screw that sticks out into the room at elbow height due to faulty installation. It has been known to snag or scratch the careless as they enter my 10′ x 10′ turf. I don’t want visitors to get “screwed” so I cover the offending tip, which also cuts down on swearing.

I was thinking about this magnet and my office scenario yesterday as I read a syndicated article about kids today replacing the heavy-duty curse words with alternate but similar-sounding versions that the article described as “Cussing Lite”. Words like “freakin'” or “friggin'” are in the lexicon, and it’s apparently – according to the article – now socially acceptable to use words like “crap” and “sucks” in church or in advertising and not just when trying to twist a rusted nut of off a bolt or when a dam breaks (snicker, snicker – I said “nut” and “dam”!)

“Cussing Lite” isn’t a new concept, of course. Heck, darn, shoot and gol’dangit have been with us for generations and, as a certain children’s book assures us, “Everyone Poops”. Back in W.C. Fields’ day he used expressions such as “Godfrey Daniels!” and “Mother of Pearl!” to get past the Hayes Commission. Go even further back and the medieval exclamation “zounds”, which sounds so quaint today, was a contraction of “God’s wounds”, which was pretty heavy duty for the time, I’m sure.

It seems we always need a group of words to express above normal dismay or frustration in order to show we truly are shocked or agitated without stepping over into the scorched earth territory of full-bodied swearing. Of course, if the phrases are all too common it’s hard to achieve the effect you might have been trying for. My own children have adopted phrases such as “barnacles!”, “tarter sauce!” and “sweet onion chutney!” to get past the home censors. When my oldest started going to beauty school she was in a group of foul-mouthed girls who’s language, sadly, wasn’t too uncommon (in fact, it was exceedingly “common” to use another quaint phrase). When my daughter would let fly with a “pickleweiner!”, however, her friends could be sure she was taking it to another level.

In a time when comedians have to work bluer than blue to achieve anything approaching shock value I suppose I should be glad there is still a sensibility that says there should be lighter weight epithets. (I remember how hard I laughed the first time Gilda Radner, as Emily Litella, first said “b***h” to Jane Curtin; now that it’s every third word out of a rapper’s mouth the effect is wearying.) Generally, however – while I have my own struggles with my tongue at times – I think we can do better.

This is especially so when we are writing and have time to think and craft our thoughts. Sometimes a bad word, judiciously placed, can be very effective for the situation; even for this to work, however, the button can only be pushed rarely. Last week my eldest wrote an emotional post for this blog which I reviewed before uploading. In one place she selected a certain word, mild by today’s standards, for a one-word sentence to emphasize her feelings. It was effective in the context, but I didn’t want to let her off easy. “Think of another word,” I said.

“But Dad, that’s the word I feel,” she said.

“Feel a little deeper,” I said. “Don’t tell me that out of all your vocabulary that is the one and only word that sums up your distress.” She pondered. She furrowed her brow. She smirked and came up with another word. I laughed and let it go in. A point I’ve tried to make with myself as I try to control my own tongue, and that I’ve tried to pass on to my kids, is that the Bible says that “out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaks.”

When it’s time to open our mouths, what do we tell the world we are full of?

It’s not what you think

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The issue of abortion and Roe v. Wade has been the elephant in the hearing room in every judicial hearing since President Bush came into office and is front and center in the Harriet Miers nomination. In my view, in fact, Roe v. Wade was the catalytic event that lit the slow-burning fuse that ultimately launched terms such as “strict constitutional originalist” into our awareness. The Miers brouhaha has led to several thought-provoking (well, provoking anyway) posts on abortion that I’ve read recently such as here, here and here. It has also led me to ponder the way my own thinking has changed over the years.

Some background: I was a lusty 14-year-old boy when Roe v. Wade overturned the law of the land and made abortion legal. Looking back now I can see it as an event that separated me from my innocence as I started to make my way into the adult world. Innocence was lost because this was the first time that I recall letting my head overrule my heart in determining how I was going to run my life.

Some more background: I was raised in a mainstream Christian denomination that taught salvation through grace rather than through decision. When I was seven, however, my parents let me go to a vacation bible school course with my best friend. There the teacher said that if anyone wanted to earn extra credit we should watch the Billy Graham crusade on television that night and then make a report to the class the next day. Extra credit was always encouraged at my house, so I raised my hand. That night when Reverend Graham invited anyone who wanted eternal life with Jesus to stand up and come down front, I scarcely hesitated. Sure I was in my own basement, with my mother ironing on the other side of the room, but I stood up, walked to the TV and repeated the prayer. I figured if God was God, he’d get the message, and I followed my heart.

When I was thirteen, my parents let me stay overnight with another friend and go to a Bill Glass crusade with my friend’s Webelo pack. I thought I was going because Bill Glass was a former football player, and I loved football. I’m not sure if I remembered my TV experience then or not, but I again answered the altar call and made my way backstage from the second tier of the arena. There I was surprised to see that Mr. Martindale from my church was one of the counselors. We prayed and he gave me a workbook and then came over to my house once a week for six weeks to go over the six chapters in the book. About all I remember of the book is that I usually waited until the last 15 min-utes before Mr. Martindale arrived to whip through that week’s lesson.

So there I was at 14, hearing that abortion was legal and thinking, “All right! There’s one less reason for a girl not to have sex with me!” (Ugly, callow and shallow, to be sure, but there you have it: portrait of the writer as a young man.) At the same time I was thinking that, my heart was going “Ewww! How could anyone do such a thing?” It took a lot of mental gymnastics to overcome my unsophisticated heart, but I managed. By God’s grace, I was thankfully never put in a position where I had to put my new belief into practice.

Flash forward to December, 1987. Newly restored to God, and newly married, I watched the monitor intently as the ultra-sound traced my wife’s stomach, finally revealing a three-week old head, arms and hands, right where they were supposed to be (it was supposedly medically impossible for her to become pregnant). At once my heart soared while my mind plunged to its depths and pleaded, “My God, forgive me!”

Jump forward another decade or so and I was reading a StarTribune columnist (no longer with the paper) who also happened to be a pastor from the same denomination in which I grew up, relating how she was advising a member of her flock to have an abortion. I remember the writer described herself as someone “in the trenches” where there were no “hard and fast” rules when a woman’s life is concerned. Rather than anger, I felt a piercing sadness for her and for those under her care. It occured to me then that there’s a difference between a trench and a pit, and how important it is to know which one you’re standing in.

The unpleasant truth is that there are hard and fast rules for every situation, whether we choose to follow them or not. The struggle comes in trying to figure out a reason in our heads why the rules we know in our hearts don’t apply to us. Doing so, however, leads not to peace but to other, more desperate, situations that also have hard and fast rules — and even harder choices.

More painfully, I saw my former self in that columnist and realized that I didn’t have to ask how someone could be so deceived because I already knew. And then I had to ask the logical, but oh-so-difficult question: “God, what is the lie that I’m still believing? Where is it that I still let my head decide the way things really are as opposed to what’s in my heart and in your word?” I know the answers are there waiting, if I really dare to look.

In the final sifting of heart (what we believe) and mind (what we think), it’s not what we think that is going to matter.

Update:

Psycmeistr has succinct take on the Miers situation and the sentiment that conservatives must be loyal to the Party and the decisions of the leader:

Since the beginning of the Miers nomination debacle, we have been hearing from the “the elite Republican Priesthood” that our CIC, the head of our party, has made a decision, and that we need to be good little foot soldiers and fall in line. To that, I politely say BUNK!

…Folks, we live in the United States of America, under a government “by the People, of the People, and for the People”, not “by the Party, of the Party, and for the Party.” Ours is a bottom-up government, not top-down, and the rule is by the consent of the governed.

Further, while I would like Roe v. Wade overturned – and Ms. Miers may share my personal belief – the decision in this arena must be overturned because it is bad law and outside the intent of the Constitution, not because it is perceived to be immoral. That is why a constitutional originalist interpretation is more important than an evangelical one on the Supreme Court. If it comes down to the personal beliefs of whoever is on the court at any given time, then the judges become no more than bizarrely dressed politicians themselves.