Category: life decisions


I must admit, I was absolutely convinced that after 33 days of trial and only 10 hours of deliberation, Casey Anthony’s jury would hand down a guilty verdict.  Yesterday afternoon, sitting in the waiting room of a doctor’s office with my Mom (who fell and broke her shoulder over the weekend), I was absolutely stunned when a ‘not guilty’ was announced on the more serious Murder 1, Murder 2, and Negligent Homicide charges.  Facebook posts went through the roof, Twitter was all aflutter, and every cable channel except Disney and Cartoon Network provided up-to-the-minute commentary.  One newscaster offering her own particular flair for drama was practically salivating over the assumed guilty verdict just moments prior to the live announcement.

After hours and hours of research over the last two weeks about filicide – the deliberate murder of a child by a parent – I have learned that approximately 400 children under the age of 5 are killed in the United States every year.  That’s more than one child every single day!  And the large majority of these precious little ones are killed by a biological parent – not another family member, foster or adoptive parent, daycare provider, or stranger/predator.  Those we are born to trust the most are the very ones who have viciously, violently robbed these babies of life, liberty, and the simple joy of a frozen popsicle on a hot summer day.  If you increase the age of children to 12, the numbers go up even more.  In fact, the most life-threatening risk to a child under the age of 15 is their own parent.

Right about now, you’re probably sitting at your computer or holding your iPod shaking your head, wondering what happens in the mind and heart of a parent to move them from the normal, everyday frustration of parenting to not only thinking about but actually carrying out the murder of their own flesh and blood. This can’t even be stretched to ‘mercy killing’, where a parent might possibly argue that death was an act of kindness. No, not by any stretch.  This is the cold-blooded, premeditated, planned and rehearsed killing of a defenseless human being.  Now, if your blood pressure is rising and you’re starting to squirm, keep reading.

In 2008, approximately 1.2 million abortions were performed in the United States.  More than 50% of those abortions were performed on women between the ages of 21 and 25.  Cold-blooded, premediated, planned and paid for killing of a defenseless human being.  As much as we cry out for justice on behalf of little Caylee Anthony’s murder, had her mother opted for an abortion anytime prior to the birth of her daughter on August 9, 2005 we would call it ‘a woman’s choice’.  Caylee was murdered and callously tossed away in a garbage bag before she could celebrate her 3rd birthday with cupcakes, lemonade, and girlfriends.  But over a million little Caylees die every year in legal abortion clinics throughout the US before they ever draw their first breath.

For all the outrage Casey Anthony’s verdict has brought to the surface, it would do us well to recognize that until we as a people put inestimable value on human life – all human life – we will continue to reap what we have sown.  Selfishness will prevail.  And we will grieve the heart of God who knit us together in our mother’s womb.

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Sitting in front of my computer last night, catching up on emails, and reading a detailed online article about what an “After Rapture Party” is (for those who remain after May 21st), I saw a new ‘friend request’ on my facebook page.  I recognized the name and clicked on the picture to enlarge it.  Sure enough, it was one of my daughter’s classmates from school.  She and another friend had posed wearing spaghetti strap camisoles holding wine glasses up to their lips with what appeared to be white wine in their glasses.  I can only hope it was apple juice or sparkling cider. They were clearly trying to convey a seductive look (as much as a 12-year-old is capable of) and pass themselves off as older, sexier, and ready to party.

Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe my reaction.  This little girl (and yes, she is still a girl) is advertising herself on the internet very much like some of the ads you would be able to find on the back pages of any edition of Creative Loafing.  At first I was angry and reached for my phone to call her dad and tattle on her.  And then overwhelming sadness replaced the outrage.  I remembered that she’s had ‘boyfriends’ all the way back to fourth grade.  She was given a cell phone long before any of the other kids her age and has privileges at home that are part of the reason Rachel is not allowed to spend the night at her house. She’s a sweet, smart girl who refers to me as Mrs. Mom and runs to hug me every time we see each other.  Maybe that’s one of the reasons her facebook page bothered me so much.  If she were a ‘bad seed’ or a bully or just plain mean maybe it would be easier to write her off.  But she’s not. 

She’s one of millions of girls in our society today (yes, my daughter included) who are being blatantly told by the media, TV, music, and movies that the only thing they are good for is sex – and they better look the part.  It’s everywhere, in every form of communication.  Hip-hop and rap music seem to take it to an extreme but don’t be fooled.  It’s in country music, too.  And top 40.  And rock.  Pop artist Rhianna, who became the poster child for domestic violence about two years ago has now released a song containing the lyrics, “sticks and stones may break my bones but whips and chains excite me.”  What?!?!?  And my kids say the same thing to me that I said to my parents: “I don’t listen to the words. I just like the music.”  Yeah, right – as they sing every word to every song on the playlist.

Our county’s school system has a dress code.  Not uniforms mind you, but a certain degree of standards that must be adhered to during the school day.  And I’m happy to say they are quick to enforce it.  I’m also sad to note that I’ve actually heard parents complaining about it.  Yep.  Parents.  Dads griping because their daughters can’t wear ‘booty call’ shorts and Moms whining about the fact that their daughters’ midriff must be covered at all times.  Really?  You, as a parent, are incensed because the school system is requiring your daughters to be modest?  Who’s drinking the Kool-Aid now? 

Because of my cancer and the grueling reconstruction surgeries that followed treatment, my husband and I have become more than just acquaintances with my doctors.  We’ve gotten to know them and have taken the opportunity to talk about a myriad of topics other than just my particular procedures.  We were shocked to learn that my plastic surgeon’s office does breast enhancements on girls as young as 16!  My specific doctor does not, and as a whole the practice does not encourage it, but there are parents – right here in the Bible belt – giving their daughters plastic surgery procedures as high school graduation gifts.  Excuse me, what planet are you from???  It’s one thing for ‘the world’ to be telling our daughters to go to any lengths necessary to make themselves a hot mess, but it’s another thing altogether for their parents to be footing the bill.

This has been my soap box for years.  I’ve noticed even at our church – one of the largest Southern Baptist churches in the country – a growing number of girls and young women who obviously put a lot of thought into what they wear and how they wear it on Sunday.  And not in a good way.  It occurs to me, especially for the younger girls, that they are not old enough to drive nor hold down a job.  So who is taking them shopping and who is paying for these clothes?  Mom and Dad.  Which means that as they are walking to the car on Sunday morning (or any other day of the week) unless Mom and Dad are blind they see what their daughters are wearing – and the message it’s portraying.  I for one would have been locked in my closet for 30 years if I had ever tried to dress that way, much less leave the house.

And maybe that’s the key.  My Mom taught me – by her example – what was appropriate.  She dressed like a lady.  When we went shopping together she would let me pick out what I liked.  If something didn’t fit properly or wasn’t appropriate we would discuss the why behind the ‘no’.  And after we talked about it, 90% of the time it was still a ‘no’ but she taught me to use good judgment and good sense and to be careful what I presented to others.  But here’s the key: she didn’t hesitate to say ‘no’.  My mom wasn’t so obsessed with being my best friend that she stopped being a parent.  And my Dad didn’t use the excuse of “giving me a competitive edge” to justify allowing inappropriate behavior.

Maybe we should add a new line to the children’s tune, “Oh be careful little eyes, what you see.”  It might go something like this:

“Oh be careful, Mom and Dad, what you buy.
 Oh be careful, Mom and Dad, what you buy. 
 For the world is standing by and your daughter will pay the price.
 Oh be careful, Mom and Dad, what you buy.”

I killed a snake in our backyard last week.  I had been trimming the bloomed-out azaleas with an electric hedge trimmer.  When the pile of dead branches and spent blooms started piling up, I went to find the metal rake so I could move them to our ‘sinkhole’ up near the fence.  Sidebar: the builder oh-so-many-years-ago decided that instead of disposing of the trash properly as he built the house, his crew could simply toss everything up into the backyard.  Some 28-odd years later, there sits a hungry sinkhole that we feed several times a year with grass, leaves, branches, and whatever my young son and his friends decide is worthy of burying in our backyard abyss.

Anyway, as I carried the rake back to my work site, I saw him: a large black and yellow snake curled up at the base of the railroad ties.  I dropped the rake and made a quick retreat to the steps of the deck.  Apparently the vibration of the rake caused the snake to stir, and he began slithering his way back behind the railroad tie wall where my trimming had disturbed his home.  I suddenly realized that if he made it all the way in I would never see him again.  At first, that thought comforted me.  Then it occurred to me that I would still know he was out there.  Some ten feet or so away from the trampoline – and the kids.  I grabbed a huge pair of ‘yard scissors’ (manual hedge trimmers?) and snagged him around his mid-section.  Long story short, after a twisty, turney, tug-of-war I won and cut the snake in half.  He was laid to rest in a Tupperware dish with a rock on top of the lid (just in case a sawed-in-half snake could resurrect itself and escape) until my husband could get home to see my trophy of bravery.

What I didn’t know at the time was that my backyard companion was in fact a King Snake: non-venomous, not prone to strike (constrictor family), and easily tamed (please don’t tell my boys that last part).  He was in fact the neighborly kind of snake that eats rodents of every kind and is impervious to the bite of other native Georgia snakes which are venomous like the rattler, water moccasin, and a few others.  Bummer.  He was a good size, too.  Somewhere around 23″ long and as big around as my two thumbs put together.  I went to bed that night wondering if sometime in the next few days or weeks we would be overrun by rodents who had been given the green light to invade our now unsecured backyard.  No sugarplums for me – I had visions of Willard dancing through my head.

As I was relaying this story to my Mom the next day on the phone, she said almost as an afterthought, “Too bad you didn’t know what he was from the start; you might have changed your mind.”  I’ve been chewing on that for several days now.  How many times in my life have I encountered something that appeared to be a threat and reacted (panicked), only later to realize if I had only taken the time to get all the facts, I might have changed my mind?  In my defense, I have a history with snakes.  I’ve killed three in our yard in the last seven years and have been bitten by one.  Still, it has given me pause to recall at least a handful of decisions that given the opportunity and more information, I would have indeed ‘changed my mind’.

It might be stretching things a bit to say I miss ole’ Mr. Black and Yellow, but knowing what I know now, I might just have let him slither back behind those railroad ties and live happily (and well fed) ever after.

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