“I have no doubt, none at all, that we are
in the midst of a global warming, or,
as I prefer to call it, spring.”

- Dick Cheney

Friday was Day One of this trip for Night Visions and I and our youngest daughter, Patience, and it was mostly spent in travel to New York and in waiting in various lines at the Chinese Embassy for visas for a trip NV and Patience are taking later this summer. I believe I read somewhere that the Chinese invented bureaucracy. This would certainly explain their later invention of gunpowder.

It was a pleasant day, so when we got free of the Red tape we headed down to Canal Street and started walking north in order to take in parts of Soho, Chinatown and Little Italy. Actually, Chinatown has been expanding and encroaching on Little Italy for some time now, though it's still pretty Italian on Gennaro and Mulberry Streets - or not. We browsed one of the sidewalk shops on Mulberry featuring Italian-themed items and tee-shirts and buttons with phrases like "Fuhgedaboutit" and "Bada Bing" prominently emblazoned. The only staff we saw in the store, however, were Chinese.

It was a good warm-up for the weekend's sightseeing. NV's pedometer registered 6.6 miles. I don't know how much of that came from shifting from one foot to another while waiting in lines at the embassy.

I'm out here for business reasons every year about this time, and usually try to tack a few days on either before or after the business is taken care of for some personal time. This is the third time NV has joined me, and the first time for Patience, who has been counting the days since I brought the eldest daughter here with me in 2002 (I was a finalist for Cool Dad of the Year that year). The older daughter was 13 then and hard to impress.

Me: "This is Grand Central Station." Her: "Hmmm."

Me: "Here's the Empire State Building." Her: "Neat."

Me: "Let's go out to the Statue of Liberty." Her: "Whatever."

Me: "Well, this is Times Square." Her: "LOOK, DAD! SHOES!"

NV and I came out here for the first time in April of 2001. We didn't know what to expect other than the images we had in our minds from movies and TV shows about what a jungle New York is. We were nearly overwhelmed, however, by the friendliness and helpfulness of people we talked to. Invariably whenever we'd step to one side to consult a pocket map to figure out where we were, someone would stop and say, "Where you going? Naw, you don't want to go that way - here's how you do it." And they'd be right!
That year we bought a sightseeing package that would get us in to nine attractions for the price of six. This included the Empire State Building, the Guggenheim, the Museum of Natural History and others. On our last night we were really flagging and had one last attraction left: a trip to the observation deck of the World Trade Center.

We wanted to go at night to see all the lights of the city, but after stopping for dinner in Midtown we felt wiped. We were thinking about skipping it, but the after-dinner coffee revived us. Though it was getting late we decided to make a dash for it and try to arrive before the Observation Deck closed. We made it with 20 minutes to spare, and were the last ones allowed up. The guard warned us that there wasn't much time left and we should really come back, but this was our only chance and we were going for it. We got to the top and did a circuit of the building, the guard shadowing us all the way lest we linger. It was a spectacular view – we felt as if we could see lights all the way to Philadelphia.

Even though it was rushed, we were glad we made the effort, especially since we discovered a Krispy Kreme store in the plaza on our way out. NV had never had a Krispy Kreme, and though it wasn't really doughnut time, we decided that whatever happens in Manhattan can stay in Manhattan. We indulged. What a night!

It was a special memory, made even more so in September of that year. We were so glad we made the effort when we did. As we watched the news that horrible day I kept thinking about that night, our mad dash through the streets, and the long, slow walk the survivors were now making. The view we had enjoyed and marveled at was no more - certainly not the only view that changed that day.

The next year when First Daughter and I planned our trip to New York I really wanted to pay a visit to what was being called "The Pile." Once we were in town, however, I couldn't bring myself to go. Somehow, for reasons still hard to explain, it just didn't seem right.

The Night Writer and the lovely Night Visions have been preparing all week to roll back into Keegan's to defend last week's trivia title. Unfortunately, I should have been putting more time into preparing for my trip to New York.

As it is, we have a 6:30 a.m. flight Friday morning - and I still have way too much to do. If I can rally, we might still make it by 8:00 p.m. If not, the Fraters will just have to wait until later to deal with this impudence.

Sorry.

P.S.
Stay tuned for Gotham-blogging!

Nuclear Option? Feh. Just don't let this fall into the hands of the MAWB Squad (because you know sooner or later the Senator is going to be pushing the buttons).

Does anyone have the coordinates to 425 Portland Ave, Minneapolis?

Hat Tip: Varifrank

Portia Rediscovered has a great photo from a Syrian street protest. Someone has been having fun with the image (ya think?), but it's a funny shot to go along with the following caption:

Bus fare to anti-war protest rally: $0.50
Paint and canvas protest signs: $32.00
Asking a retired US Army sergeant to translate your protest signs: PRICELESS.

Check it out!

In 1996, in the midst of a strong economy, the U.S. re-elected a president who's personal character had been a topic of conversation (not always polite) since he first appeared on the national radar. The media and cultural mantra then could be summarized as "I don't care if he's a good person as long as he does a good job." The economy was doing well and those who took issue with the president's behavior were lectured by the elites that Americans were more concerned about their self-interest than in being self-righteous.

Eight years later a president with marginal approval ratings, who was managing both an underperforming economy and what was frequently portrayed as an unpopular war, and who was as venomously despised by the left as his predecessor had been by the right, was reelected with majorities of both the popular and electoral vote. Some explanations for this unlikely scenario focused on the significant number of voters who said "moral values" or just plain "values" were what motivated their voting.

Not surprisingly, some of those out of power have been trying to repackage their memes in "value" oriented terms, confident (or at least hopeful) that their recent failures were merely a matter of poor communication and not a faulty philosophy. Others on that side, however, shout "Theocracy, booga booga!" as if this were a nation of vampires horrified at the sight of a crucifix. Yet their own One True Faith compels them to react to judicial nominees in the same way the Taliban greeted reliefs of Buddha.

Or perhaps these are the vampires, fleeing the dawn and being cornered in a crypt - be it the Senate Cloak Room or the faculty lounge at a University. Hissing at the rabble that have pursued them, they draw themselves up in as fierce a manner as can be mustered to demand imperiously that no one touch that window shade.

They know the day must have its turn, but if they can hold out long enough then night, too, will again have its way.

When my daughters got to be around three or four years old there were occasions when it was expedient for me to wash their hair in the kitchen sink. For some reason the idea of this simple, well-lit procedure was scarier to them than anything that they might have imagined coming out from under the bed or lurking in the basement. It was scarier even than Lima beans.

I couldn't believe the tears and chin-quiverings that came about simply at the suggestion, or as I lovingly scooped a little one up in my arms, laid her on the kitchen counter with a towel rolled under her neck and her head in the sink and scrupulously gauged water temperature with the same care with which I had once tested bottles of formula.

Fortunately, in one of the first of these experiences with my oldest daughter I hit upon Mr. Henri, suave hairdresser pour l'enfants. In a cobbled together French accent that was various parts Pepe lePew and Jacques Cousteau I would regale her with an enthusiastic but sophisticated description of the wonderful experience she was about to receive, punctuated with nasal, "hauh, hauh, hauh" chortles.

"Hauh, hauh, my leetle floWEHR, Mr. Henri ees so glad you kept your appointment! Just for you I hav ze wonderful new shempoo, extracted from ze most delicate blossoms and mixed with bleu cheese! Hauh, hauh, hauh!"

As I prattled on like this her apprehension faded and the giggles soon began since, in addition to his obvious charm, Mr. Henri was also meticulous about keeping "ze soap out of ze eyes." Command performances were repeated for one and then another daughter over the years until Mr. Henri retired by the sea to swap stories with Puff the Magic Dragon.

I thought of Mr. Henri again last night as I settled in a chair in our kitchen, just a few feet from the sink, while my oldest daughter fastened a drape around my neck in preparation for cutting my hair. She's in beauty school and is at a stage where she is working on real, live people - including "free" (not counting the cost of tuition) hair cuts and stylings for mom and dad. I admit I felt a bit nervous, given the sharp implements and the large surface area to be dealt with, so I tried to think of what comforting thing Mr. Henri would say, and his response came immediately: "Don't worry, be Daddy!"

I sat back, entrusting myself to her graceful fingers and perfectionism, much as she had made her own leap of faith into my arms so many years ago. I surrendered my head into her hands where it could rejoin my heart.

Ah, Mr. Henri, ze soap, I think it ees in my eyes!

Don't stop me if you think you've heard this before:

A British court decided last week that 18-month-old Charlotte Wyatt need not be resuscitated by her doctors if her breathing fails. The unusual twist to this story, at least to American ears, is that it is the doctors who sought and received this sanction over the steadfast objections of Charlotte's parents, described as devout Christians, who believe she can still thrive.

My take on this may not be quite what you anticipate either, but stick with me for a couple of paragraphs.

Here are the details: Charlotte was born very prematurely at just 26 weeks of gestation, and has been hospitalized since that time. The doctors say she is in constant pain and cannot have a meaningful life. She was born in October of 2003 and the doctors originally said she would not survive the winter; they now say she will not survive infancy. Her parents say she has become more responsive and, though impaired, can see and hear to some extent. (For more details read this story from Friday's StarTribune or visit this Q&A on the Charlotte Wyatt Case from the BBC.)

While I can't possibly know what this girl's condition and prognosis truly are and what is best for her, I'm strongly in favor of leaving these decisions to her parents. That said, there are things I do know about that give me pause about this case and the many others like it yet in store.

First, what caught my attention when I read Friday's Strib article was that it is the doctors that want to deny resuscitation and it ended up in the High Court because the parents wouldn't agree. In my day job I frequently work with a group of nurses who provide healthcare consulting nationwide for high-risk pregnancies and newborns. I asked and was told that Charlotte's situation would be highly unlikely in the U.S. One nurse even told me that you might have a better chance of finding a case where doctors were advocating for more care or intervention than the parents were willing to try.

I'm generally suspicious of anything that purports to be a microcosm, but this case does illustrate for me the difference between not just Britain's nationalized healthcare system and the U.S., but between socialism and capitalism as well. For all the hoary cliches proponents of each system throw at the other, this is a case that shows that under socialism the State definitely does believe that it ultimately owns your children, and will act accordingly when it has to.

As a parent, it is bad enough for me to imagine doctors coming to me and saying there's nothing they can do. It would drive me right over the edge, though, if they were to come and say there's nothing they will do - and to have that decision enforced by my government.

Earlier I mentioned that there will be many more of these types of cases to come. There's some social commentary involved there to be sure, but this observation is mainly due to the improvements in medical technology now available to us. Another one of the things I've learned from our group of nurses is that it is now possible for babies to be born at 24 weeks (not 26, like Charlotte) and survive. A high percentage of these babies don't survive, and there are definitely developmental issues for those that do, but these "miracle" babies are becoming more common. Indeed, I'm told the biggest reason behind the U.S. infant mortality rate going up for the first time in more than 40 years is because it used to be that babies born this prematurely could not live and were counted as "fetal deaths" instead of live births. Since infant mortality rates are based on infants that die sometime after a live birth, an increase in 24-26 week live births with some subsequent deaths ends up - strangely enough - increasing the mortality rate even though more babies are actually surviving.

Is it expensive? You better believe it. A case like this could cost more than a million dollars. In Britain, where the State pays, the State is willing to put a value on an individual life. They will rationalize it as allocating resources for the greater good, or try to frame it in terms of it really being in the best interest of the sufferer.

I believe that in the U.S. there's still a greater desire to value life rather than put a value on it. That may be changing, however, and one of the ways people will use to find a way out of the dilemma is to talk about "meaningful" life or quality of life, as if life that doesn't line up with some ideal is somehow not as precious.

I can firmly say that that is an ignorant attitude not worthy of the exalted intellect this philosophy supposedly honors. I can say that because there's something - or rather, someone - else I also know.

Hardly a week before the StarTribune ran Charlotte's story, they ran this article about Marja Laina Cassidy. I know Marja's mother Maija and was working with her when Marja was born prematurely three years ago at just 23 weeks gestation. Marja weighed barely over a pound and a half then and was so small that Maija's wedding ring slid easily over her baby's upper arm. Follow the link above and you can see the pictures and read the story about how - and what - Marja is doing now. And if that gives you a lift, I'd also recommend reading this story from Stones Cry Out.

Yes, the cost of Marja's life - and the lives of the growing number like her - is frightening. It is not nearly as frightening, however, as what I fear it will cost us as a society if we say that they are not worth it.

Update:

I spoke with another nurse today who has had years of experience in hospital Labor & Delivery rooms and in neonatal care. She confirms that a "Do Not Resuscitate" order could not be issued in the U.S. without the parents' consent. Furthermore, if such an order were given, it would have to be renewed every 24 hours.

The team "Night Writer Plus" consisting of myself, the lovely Night Visions, and two fortunate souls sitting next to us with nothing better to do (but knowledgeable about the Grammys), boldly stepped into the vacuum left by the absent Fraters and won the Thursday Night Trivia Contest at Keegan's.


Fraters: We have the title. We have the free drink tickets. We have no fear! See you next week.

There have been times over the years when I'd be so vexed and miffed with the local newspapers that I'd think about starting my own. Actually it was more like fantasizing than thinking, because once thinking actually entered into the the daydream I'd think of the enormous start-up costs for a plant and equipment, the challenge of vetting reporters, recruiting advertisers, dealing with unions and worrying about things such as whether my delivery staff was actually delivering the paper or sitting at Krispy Kreme. I'd then find more pleasant uses for my imagination.

Then the blogosphere began to coalesce and a wide variety of opinion, analysis and even news reporting became easily available. Clicking between multiple voices from various sides of an issue and across the political spectrum increased my awareness and understanding (especially once I discovered the MOB).

Much is written and disputed in both the print and online media these days about the shrinking influence of the old model of journalism and the new wave. I won't rehash the arguments for and against here, but I was very intrigued by this post today from Jay Rosen (PressThink) on the "stand alone journalist" and his description of virtual newspapers where writers could submit news and punditry for purchase and posting. More details on this concept are available here and here, and a Minneapolis edition can be found here.

I think it's an interesting concept, and while I'd still make my daily visits to the Fraters, Mitch, the Captain and the other NARNians as well as MOBsters such as Bogus, MAWB Squad, Kool Aid Report, the Psycmeistr and Centrisity (to name but a few), these are all strong voices that would be great regular contributors to a consolidated Minnesota site - and even better if they could make a few bucks in the process!

Granted, I'm new to the blogosphere and perhaps this type of thing has been tried and found wanting for reasons not readily apparent to me. If any bloggers have already looked into the NewsMinneapolis site, or choose to look into it now, I'd be very interested in hearing your reactions.

Is the Democratic Party in a persistent vegetative state? (And are "blue" states blue due to a lack of oxygen?) One might wonder about that if the presence of intelligent thought - as opposed to pure mulishness - is one of the requirements for meaningful life.

I've been meaning to comment on the the inconsistency of the media's reaction to Howard Dean's promise to use Terri Schiavo's case as a political football, but Tim Blair has already framed it perfectly:

CASE ONE: The fight over removing Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube "is a great political issue ... and a tough issue for Democrats ... This is an important moral issue and the pro-life base will be excited that the Senate is debating this important issue." —Republican legal counsel Brian Darling in a memo first reported on March 18.

Result: Much left-wing rage, many on the right embarrassed, Darling resigns.

CASE TWO: "We’re going to use Terri Schiavo later on. This is going to be an issue in 2006, and it’s going to be an issue in 2008." —Democratic National Committee Chairman Howard Dean, April 15.

Result: Pending.

Result: (sound of crickets chirping) is more like it. I don't think the Dems could survive without the "life support" provided by the Mainstream Media.

(HT: Around the World in 80 days)

I've been thinking about family dynamics a lot lately, so Varifrank's "writing between the lines" on an article about the negative reaction of Pope Benedicts's older brother to his sibling's elevation cracked me up.

This popped up in today's "The Writer's Almanac:"

It's the birthday of Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, born in A.D. 121. He is not as well known for his leadership abilities as he is for his deeply philosophical nature. He was a kind and tolerant ruler who freed many slaves and tried his best to rid Rome of corruption. But Aurelius is best known for the writings he left behind. They were diaries and reflections he wrote every day, and were not meant for publication, but were his own personal insights into the stresses of ruler-ship and of everyday life, and fears about his own personal inadequacies. His writings, now known as the Meditations, also mark his beliefs in the doctrines of Stoicism: that we must get through the problems of our lives with patience and endurance, drawing on our own inner resources to see us through. He believed that most of life was predestined, but that much of it could be improved by our own discipline and will power.

He wrote: "If you work at that which is before you, following right reason seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract you, but keeping your divine part pure, as if you might be bound to give it back immediately; if you hold to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with your present activity according to nature…you will be happy. And there is no man who is able to prevent this."

The original Marcus Aurelius would have made a good blogger. The MOB's version isn't bad either: stop over at The Attic and get some cake and check out today's take on a flat tax vs. a national sales tax.

I unexpectedly found myself in a hospital emergency room last Wednesday. Of course, just about everyone who finds themselves in an emergency room does so unexpectedly since it's not the type of event that typically makes it into your dayrunner. ("You want to get together at 10:00? Sorry, that's no good for me - I'm down for cardiac arrest then. What does the following week look like for you?")

In this instance, however, the element of surprise was not as great since the ER staff was focusing on my father, who was already scheduled for heart surgery later in the week. I had arrived at my parents' home the night before in anticipation of the surgery, so I was there in the morning when my dad woke up feeling very weak and couldn't catch his breath - the result of what would turn out to be fluid building up in his chest due to his failing aortic valve. My mother had called the EMTs and he was taken to the regional hospital nearby where his immediate symptoms were quickly brought under control by the ER team and we all began breathing easier.

The shock was greater for two other families who were also gathering in the ER that morning. One was the family of an older man brought in as a result of a stroke, and the second was the family of a teenaged young man who's truck had crashed into a tree.

The "children" of the stroke victim were all adults and I imagined that their expressions suggested they knew something like this was going to happen eventually but they would have been happy for it not to have been today. Having been through strokes in our own family I knew what was still in store for them and wondered if they had an inkling yet of the nature of the life changing experience that had just introduced itself to their family.

For the family of the young man the shock was even greater and ultimately more complete as he was soon pronounced dead.

From the relative comfort of my family's situation I still had cause to ponder the seeming randomness of three lives and three families coming together at that time - all within 50 feet of each other but each in our own world as three destinies were parceled out: you live, you die, you limp.

The doctors decided to move my dad a day early to Barnes Hospital in St. Louis where his surgery was to take place. My mother and I went back to the house to get my things and pack what she'd need. My folks live in the same small rural Missouri town where they grew up and where they are still surrounded by family and many older friends with whom they have many shared experiences. On the way to the hospital we stopped to top off the gas tank and while at the gas station my mom saw some friends, one of whom had already had the same surgery my dad was having. Mom filled them in on the change in plans and as the group was standing together I saw what I took as a look of knowing pass between them that I chalked up to the shared procedure.

On the day of the surgery I saw the same look of knowing on the faces of my dad's older brothers, his sister and sister-in-law as they arrived in the waiting room and greeted my mother. The words they used were appropriate, but the looks they gave her - and the look she returned - were so meaningful and even tangible that I knew that was were the real communication was taking place. Since his brothers had had heart attacks and by-pass operations I at first attributed the look to that experience, yet I couldn't get it out of my mind.

I thought about it as we waited and then a deeper understanding came to me. The knowing did come from shared experience, but it wasn't the experience of the surgery itself. It was the bond of a generation that had been young together, raised their families at the same time (often in what must have looked like a large, rolling pile of kids), sent the kids off and simply went on getting older. It was a knowing that acknowledged this wasn't the first hospital waiting room they had gathered in, and that it wasn't going to be the last. Only today's outcome was unknown.

They and their friends have gone on to a time in their lives still largely alien to me and my generation. As I've grown older I've lived the things they've lived and come to understand the things I didn't grasp when I was younger, but perhaps I thought that as an adult I had come to know it all. They each, however, have buried at least one parent, have marked the illnesses and passing of friends and family, felt the stiffness in their own bones. They move slower now, but what was the point of hurrying in the first place?

I suppose it is my own self-centeredness that causes me to think my parents belong to me, overlooking that they had their own brothers and sisters before I was born, and see more of their siblings now than they do their own kids, with two-thirds of us scattered across the country. Theirs is a shared history before and after my generation, with all the hopes and fears, ups and downs, affection and annoyances common to us all, and a shared experience of aging who's only consolation may be that you don't have to do it alone.

We waited, prompting our uncles for the old stories from their growing up that we in turn had grown up hearing, listening again to the tales of the tricks played on their little brother and the times where they probably should have died many times over.

On schedule the surgeon came out and called my mother, brother, sister, sister-in-law and I to one side and gave us the news that the operation had gone perfectly. I turned to give the thumbs up to the rest of the family when the relief crashed over us like a wave, making me weak in the knees. Our small group huddled together, shaking, almost as if we had received the worst possible news instead of the best. The rest of the family gathered around, touching us and offering congratulations and then withdrawing, knowing we'd need some time to ourselves - and now that I think about it, probably needing some time themselves. They, too, had survived and were moving on, still ahead.

But I know things now that I didn't know before.

I spent a lot of time in hospitals last week, some of it in an emergency room and some of it in a waiting room with families of other men and women undergoing heart surgery. In the process I gained some new insights that I'm currently working into another post.

While doing this, however, I thought of something I had written for the original, pre-blog "Filings" a few years ago that seemed to gain additional resonance as we waited with others for word on matters of life and death. I offer these questions for now while I finish my more recent thoughts.

I was present at a couple of "good-byes" recently that really made me stop and say, "Hello." One was a retirement party for a woman who was leaving a job after 27 years, and the other was a visitation for a man who left this earth after 38 years. I attended the two events one right after the other in the same evening. This unusual set of circumstances, and the overwhelming honor and esteem the two unrelated individuals were so obviously held in, helped me to rediscover the value of an old, old lesson.

Have you ever noticed how we judge others by their actions, yet expect others to judge us by our intentions?

The woman who's retiring is a real sweetheart who always seems to have an encouraging word and a cheerful attitude, and a habit of doing quiet, thoughtful things for others. She's always been wonderful to me, and of course I've thought that this is because I'm such a lovable guy myself. As I looked at the room overflowing with sincere well-wishers, the table piled with gifts, and the company choir that had come to sing for her, I was taken by the realization that she didn't just treat me as special, she treated everyone as special. And of course it came back to her, in heaps.

By the time I made it to the visitation, there were lines of people extending out of two doors and well into the parking lot of the funeral home. The man who died had recently done a small favor for me, but I was there because he was the brother of a good friend. I had known he was active in the community, but I was unprepared for the large crowd of people of all ages who were there, so many of whom were obviously and profoundly grieved. As I beheld the ever-increasing crowd I, too, began to feel the loss - the loss of not having known this man myself.

The point here is that for these two people, touching others had obviously been a lifestyle and not a special event. Their good intentions were manifested in their lives, and I've got to believe that the blessings poured back into their lives over the years have been a result of this, and not the other way around.

This is not to say that the impact of our lives is ultimately measured by the number of people who show up at our retirement parties or funerals. At the same time, however, you don’t get large crowds of people who turn out to say, "You know, he really meant well."

It's true that God looks at the heart, but it's also true that "out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaks" (and you act). Has the impact of your life - in your home, your job, your church - lived up to your own intentions? How about God's?

My father's heart surgery was a complete success, although we did have some difficult moments and some late hours over the past few days. I'm back in front of my home computer, and used the long drive to ponder some of the new insights I've gained this week on the dynamics of family, faith, aging, love and fear. I'll be sorting these out and posting on these soon, but right now it's just good to be home. I appreciate those of you who have prayed and emailed or posted support. Thank you, it made a difference.

I had a long drive today, but since I calculate that I've made this drive at least 60 times in the last 25 years, it wasn't remarkable. It did feel a little weird, however, to be driving solo without the family along. One big difference: today I have total control over both the music and the snacks.

This doesn't mean the voices of my loved ones aren't being heard, though. For example, I shuffle through the CDs for the next selection and I think I hear, "Geez, do you think we could listen to something recorded in this century?" Stopping for snacks: Mmmm, pork rinds. "Dad, that is so gross." Sorry, can't hear you over the crunching and the loud music.

I do start to think about family trips we've taken, such as the big trek through South Dakota, Montana and Wyoming a while back. I remember typing some impressions into the trusty laptop. Are they still there? Oh yes, and with just a couple of clicks...presto! Instant blog!

"Oh, that's just too easy." Sorry, not listening.

SOUTH DAKOTA FLASHBACK

Keystone
We are drawing near to Mount Rushmore, and our eyes scan the hills and horizon around us looking for the first glimpse. But first our eyes must sweep past the countless brightly colored and/or flashing signs promising us the Black Hills’ "best, cheapest, most beautiful, most convenient or most shameless" memorabilia.

Highway 14 is the major artery into the Mount Rushmore area, which I suppose makes us tourists the lifeblood of the businesses in Keystone. Many must pass this way, and there is the inevitable competition to see to our undeniable needs to eat, sleep, go to the bathroom and buy forgettable mementos. I’m struck by the fact that people will drive hundreds, even thousands, of miles to see spectacular scenery or a monumental example of human art and endeavor and then want to commemorate the awe-inspiring experience with some crappy piece of plastic.

The process has been going on in this area since the first Conestoga wagon had a Wall Drug sticker pasted on its back bumper, and Keystone – located at the base of Mount Rushmore – is its own monument to the economic freedom ensured by the rocky busts ensconced above. Gift stores and restaurants line both sides of the main route through town, each one apparently named after a cowboy, an Indian or a president. Just as prominent are the billboards promoting Gutson Borglum-related sites and attractions. Borglum was the sculptor, visionary – and marketing maven – who through his will and perseverance created the Rushmore monument and, for all intents and purposes, Keystone as well.

The town reminds me of Gatlinburg, Tenn., another village that clings to the side of a mountain and exists solely to collect whatever money can be shaken from the tourists' pockets by gravity or impulse. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to see many of the same lame postcards of "country" humor here in Keystone that I saw in Gatlinburg 30 years ago. Everything from jack-alopes to the bald man’s hairbrush and folksy plaques with universal truths using colloquial spelling. I’ll grant you there is one distinct difference between Keystone and Gatlinburg: you’re not likely to find a bust of Lincoln in Tennessee.

Spearfish to Rapid City
The sky is at war with the earth. Streaks of lightning marble the dusky sky over the Black Hills, striking hilltop after hilltop. Occasionally a sheet of yellow appears, completely filling the space between two hills.

There is a history of mostly peaceful detente between the earth and the sky, punctuated by what appears to be spectacularly violent episodes such as this one. The thunder booms from the sky to the hills as if to say, "This time, this time I’m taking you down and knocking you flat." The perpetually shrugged shoulders of the hills seem to respond: "That may have worked for you in Iowa, but it ain't happening here."

Or perhaps the thunder is the voice of the hills, answering the challenge of the sky with a collective roar and rumble from deep in the throat. The fact is, this is an old marriage, and nothing will get settled tonight. This, too, will blow over, and in the morning it will be as if nothing has happened.

Kind of like this blog...

This was a little too close. The airplane part landed not very far from an intersection I drive through regularly.

FAA Probes Loss of Part from DC-10 during flight.

Excellent column from Craig Westover today, "Rx for Conscience Clauses." These clauses in state laws allow individuals or institutions to opt out of providing (or paying for) medical services on the basis of religious or moral beliefs.

Craig's take is a response to Ellen Goodman's column on the same topic and is, as always, calm and well-reasoned. One of the highlights for me was his observation on the irony of the state "granting" these rights:

Bottom line, morality is always an individual choice. "Conscience clauses" are good things, but it is ironic that the state passing a conscience clause restores to individuals the right to exercise moral judgment that government never had the authority to take away in the first place.

Blogging might be light and/or sporadic this week as my father is going into the hospital for a couple of heart procedures. The risk appears to be relatively low and we are confident in an excellent outcome.

I'll be crossing a couple of states in order to be there with my family, however, and the travel and the opportunity to enjoy having the whole family together will push blogging down on the "to do" list.

I do have a few items queued up, however, that I might be able to get to if I find myself with time on my hands, and friends and family interested in following my father's condition can check here for updates (as long as I'm not violating any HIPAA regulations, that is).

Some readers may have gathered that I have a teenage daughter. A few days ago I posted my theories on dating and requirements for friendship. The reactions I've had from this post - and ensuing discussions - have reminded me of something that Joe Soucheray read on his great Garage Logic radio program several years ago: his "Application to Date my Daughter."

I'd love to link you this useful and intriguing document, but it doesn't appear to be on the Garage Logic site any more. I did, however, have the foresight to download this years ago for future reference and I include it here as a follow up to my previous post and in appreciation for the great job Mr. Soucheray does. If dating were an option for my daughters, this application would be the one I'd use.

I give FULL CREDIT AND RECOGNITION TO JOE AND THE GL GANG FOR ORIGINATING THIS APPLICATION. I repeat - I did not write the following; I only wish I had. (Format altered to fit this blog, but text is as it originally appeared.)

According to this article from World Net Daily, Mae Magouirk has been transferred from a hospice to the University of Alabama-Birmingham hospital where "she is receiving food, fluids, cardiac care and neurological help." (See earlier post for more about this story.)

Those were not the words of Pope John Paul II, but of German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, executed 60 years ago today by the Nazis in the closing days of World War II.

I thought of these words this week as the world honored the Pope and I listened to commentators in every media try to put their political spin on what a life of faith should look like. And when I thought of their words in the context of this anniversary, I could only shake my head at the subtleties of God and offer a bitter smile. Bitter at the foolishness and presumption, but a smile nonetheless in order to share in the laugh God must have been having.

Bonhoeffer is one of my heroes. Supremely talented and perceptive, he saw spiritual truth in a clear light and threw himself into writing it down and vigorously living it out in total commitment to the lives of those around him, yet he was also capable of the loneliest touch of inner doubt. He was one of the earliest and most unyielding voices in opposition to Hitler as far back as 1933 and struggled to shine a light on Hitler's co-opting of the German church and to reconstruct Christian ethics.

Fearing for Bonhoeffer's life, his friends arranged a position for him in America ahead of the coming war, only to have him turn around and return to Germany almost immediately, saying:

I have made a mistake in coming to America. I must live through this difficult period of our national history with the Christian people of Germany. I will have no right to participate in the reconstruction of Christian life in Germany after the war if I do not share the trials of this time with my people.

A pacifist, he ultimately saw the need to try and throw a spoke into the wheel of the Nazi war machine and was arrested in 1943 and accused of being part of a plot to kill Hitler. Over the next two years Bonhoeffer wrote prodigiously and powerfully, cramming each paragraph with stunning clarity and revelation almost as if he sensed his time was short (he was 39 – younger than I am now – when he died). As he watched the German church crumble around him and embrace the unbiblical tenets of Nazism, he exhorted his followers and his country that obedience and belief were bound together, saying "Only he who believes is obedient, and only he who obeys, believes."

You can find out much more about his incredible and courageous story here on the pages hosted by the United States Memorial Holocaust Museum, but let me return to the present and the spirit of our age so much in evidence the past few weeks, and what Bonhoeffer might wryly refer to as another example of

"the vigilant religious instinct of man for the place where grace is to be obtained at the cheapest price."

What he meant was that we all too easily fall into iniquity by trying to determine for ourselves and by our own standards what pleases God. Today there is a lot of easy talk about spirituality as we boomers age and find that our first commandment – "Love thyself" – doesn’t sustain. Christian or otherwise we seek to set our own standards for what is "good enough," forgetting what it cost those who came before us to raise God’s standard. Journalist David Brooks calls it "building a house of obligation on a foundation of choice," or, "orthodoxy without obedience."

You can be thought to be spiritual merely for acknowledging there is a need for spirituality without admitting that you have any responsibility to live up to it in any way. It is a spirituality that honors teachers but not a Messiah. It is what Bonhoeffer called "cheap grace" and described as being the greatest threat to the Church. The threat, however, wasn’t from the world but rather from within the Church.

The complacency of cheap grace allowed Nazism to subvert the gospel in the German church, and the spiritual complacency of America in the 50s and 60s germinated the seeds that bear so much bitter fruit in our culture today. (Btw, you might find it an interesting study to compare the origins, thinking and actions of the original Nazis with the origins, thinking and actions of those who are the first to label others as Nazis today.) It is this "cheap grace" with which we try to cover a multitude of sins while projecting a rich aura of tolerance and enlightenment. As Bonhoeffer wrote in his classic, "The Cost of Discipleship":

This is what we mean by cheap grace, the grace which amounts to the justification of sin without the justification of the repentant sinner who departs from sin and from whom sin departs. Cheap grace is not the kind of forgiveness of sin which frees us from the toils of sin. Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves.

Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without Church discipline, Communion without confession, absolution without contrition. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the Cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.

Costly grace is the treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it a man will gladly go and sell all that he has. It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods. It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble, it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows Him.

Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock.

Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all, it is costly because it cost God the life of His son: 'ye were bought at a price,' and what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us. Above all, it is grace because God did not reckon His Son too dear a price to pay for our life, but delivered Him up for us. Costly grace is the Incarnation of God.

In what I have read of the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and - though I am not a Catholic - what I have seen in the life of Pope John Paul II, I sense they both understood that their own lives were not too dear a price to pay for the sake of future generations. As Bonhoeffer wrote in one of his letters from prison:

"The ultimate question for a responsible man to ask is not how he is to extricate himself heroically from the affair, but how the coming generation shall continue to live."

Notes: For anyone interested in gaining a deeper sense of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's life and vision I highly recommend "The Cost of Discipleship" and "Letters and Papers from Prison" as a start (don't expect to rush right through these, however). "Ethics" and "Life Together" go further into what a thriving life in the spirit and in fellowship with others is about for those who want more. There are also two excellent DVDs available. Especially moving is "Hanged on a Twisted Cross," surprisingly and effectively narrated by Ed Asner and Mike Farrell, and the very polished "Bonhoeffer" from Martin Doblmeier.

Shot in the Dark and Bogus Gold have posts today about another feeding tube that's been pulled. If that sounds familiar - please note that the woman in this case, 81-year-old Mae Magouirk, is not considered terminal, is not in a persistent vegetative state or comatose, AND has a living will that says she does not want to be starved and dehydrated if she is not in such a condition.

85 year-old Mae Magourik (note: I've confirmed through other sources that the correct spelling of the last name is Magouirk. NW) of LaGrange, Georgia, is currently being deprived of nutrition and hydration at the request of her granddaughter, Beth Gaddy. Mrs. Margourik suffered an aortic dissection 2 weeks ago and was hospitalized. Though her doctors have said that she is not terminally ill, Ms. Gaddy declared that she held medical power of attorney for Mae, and had her transferred to the LaGrange Hospice. Later investigation revealed that Ms. Gaddy did not in fact have such power of attorney. Furthermore, Mae's Living Will provides that nutrition and hydration are to be withheld only if she is comatose or vegetative. Mae is in neither condition. Neither is her condition terminal.

Furthermore, under Georgia law, if there is no power of attorney specifying a health care decisionmaker, such authority is given to the closest living relatives. Mae's brother, A. B. McLeod, and sister, Lonnie Ruth Mullinax, are both still alive and capable of making such decisions. They opposed Mae's transfer to hospice, and are fighting to save her life. But in spite of the lack of a power of attorney, and the fact that there are closer living relatives who should be given precedence by Georgia law, Ms. Gaddy sought an emergency appointment as guardian from the local probate court. The probate judge, Donald Boyd (who, I am told, is not an attorney and does not have a law degree), granted Gaddy's request, thereby giving her the power to starve and dehydrate Margourik to death, though such an action is contrary to the provisions of the living will.

By the way, the thought crossed my mind that this might be a kind of urban legend "leaked" to get the blogosphere stoked in an effort to discredit blogging. I checked back through the many threads in different blogs on this story and found most of it was one blog repeating what another blog said (like what I did with Shot in the Dark and Bogus Gold). Since the case takes place in Georgia, I looked up the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and didn't find any mention of the story. The April 8 issue of the LaGrange News - the local newspaper in the city where Mae Magouirk's hospice is located - does feature the following (read the entire story):

Woman, 81, at center of feeding tube feud
Kenneth Mullinax, the patient's nephew in Birmingham, Ala., said a hospice nurse told him that Magouirk had not received substantial nourishment since March 28. He wants a temporary feeding tube inserted until she can be evaluated for treatment at the University of Alabama Medical Center. A living will states that nourishment should be withheld only if she were in a coma or vegetative state with no hope of recovery.

Mullinax and the patient's brother and sister – Lonnie Ruth Mullinax of Birmingham and A.B. McLeod of Anniston, Ala. – came here last Friday to arrange for a feeding tube and take her to the Birmingham hospital. That same day Gaddy received emergency guardianship in Troup County Probate Court.

At a follow-up hearing Monday, the parties reached a settlement that awarded guardianship to Gaddy provided three cardiologists – James Brennan and Thomas Gore, both of LaGrange, and Raed Aquel of Birmingham – evaluate the patient, who would receive whatever treatment two of the three recommended. A final decision had not yet been reached.

"They were all hugging necks when they left court," said Probate Judge Donald Boyd. "I don’t know what happened."

Boyd said Gaddy testified at the hearing that she feeds her grandmother Jello, chips of ice and "anything else she'd be willing to eat"

"I think all of Mrs. Magouirk's family has her genuine best interests at heart, but unfortunately they disagree on what they believe would be best for her," said Jack Kirby of LaGrange, attorney for the patient’s brother and sister.

"She (Gaddy) said, 'I think it's time she (her grandmother) goes home to Jesus, that's she's too sick and would not have a good quality of life," Kenneth Mullinax said.

My wife is very efficient and detail-oriented. In our home we have a metal, 2-drawer filing cabinet, one whole drawer of which holds manila folders containing medical and other personal records for everyone in the family, titles and maintenance records for our vehicles, product instruction manuals and warranties and other valuable documents that have saved our butts many times. It's amazing how much she has managed to fit into that drawer for the benefit of four lives.

According to this article by Deroy Murdock in National Review, however, my wife is more wasteful than the federal government, which somehow keeps the entire Social Security Trust Fund for generations of Americans stored in the locked bottom drawer of a gray filing cabinet in...Fort Knox? No, Parkersburg, West Virginia.

That drawer, inside an office of the U.S. Bureau of Public Debt, contains $1.76 trillion worth of special-issue U.S. Treasury bonds. Each of these, 225 pieces of paper in all, is contained in one of two white, loose-leaf notebooks that hold plastic page covers. Despite the protective plastic, these certificates have no more financial value than the ink with which they are printed.

Well, at least the drawer is locked. And the plastic page covers are a nice touch. I'd feel better, however, if there were also a sign outside the office that reads "Beware of the Leopard!"

"The paper is symbolic," Bureau of Public Debt spokesman Pete Hollenbach explained in a February 26 Associated Press dispatch. As a 2004 Congressional Budget Office report observed, the trust fund is an "accounting mechanism" with "no economic resources."

Well, our money is purely symbolic, too, right? Certainly there must be some assets out there accumulating on our behalf...right?

The key reason these notes have no value is that the money that should be behind them — the excess payroll taxes not devoted to today's retirees — instead gets spent by Congress on everything from farm subsidies to national parks to armored Humvees.

In fiscal year 2004, Cato Institute scholar Michael Tanner reports, the Treasury collected $570.7 billion in payroll taxes and credited Social Security with $89 billion in interest. Social Security recipients received $501.6 billion in benefits. This $158.1 billion balance — which could have funded personal-retirement accounts — instead flowed into general revenues. Congress spent that amount no differently than income-tax proceeds. In corporate America, this misallocation of funds is punishable by law. In Washington, it's the law.

I think this is a great approach and obviously a real space-saver. I think we as citizens should do the same. Instead of paying Social Security taxes with real money, we simply give the government I.O.U.s and tell them to call us when it needs the money. Oh, wait...I think that's what we've already done.

(HT: Amy Ridenour).

Over the last several weeks you may or may not have been following the Minuteman Projects story about citizen volunteers preparing to patrol the Arizona-Mexico border. If you've been following the story only through the mainstream media (somehow this phrase always makes me think of the natural effects of a college kegger) then you might picture this group as Bubbas in a pick-up trucks hauling long ropes.

If so then you need to read this first person account of the first weekend's action by a flying "Bubba" that was posted by LaShawn Barber today.

Sandy from the MAWB Squad was asked to opine yesterday on the lessons that could be learned from the highly publicized celebrity marital crack-ups that are keeping the tabloids in business. Of course she delivered admirably in "Advice to the Lovelorn."

This got me to thinking, however, about the far less titillating but every bit as devastating romantic tragedies that happen all around us. Even, dare I say, in our own lives. My wife and I have been very blessed and happy in our 17-year marriage, but we both experienced emotion-searing, even mind-altering damage in our single days (stories for another day, but don't count on it).

As we look to what may be ahead for our daughters, we've come to realize that the dating culture of serial monogamy and mini-divorces is not a good way to find a mate for life. And that's based on our experiences from 20 and 30 years ago in the more idealistic days of the sexual revolution. With our oldest being of "dating" age, my wife and I naturally want better for our daughters than what we subjected ourselves to when we were their age.

Back then, at least, the culture expected couples to adopt the appearance of having a relationship. Now even the minimal commitment to someone else needed to simply make a date is optional in today's hook-up culture among teens and older singles as reported here and in the New York Times, and even among ninth-graders. Somewhere along the line "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am" went from being the height of selfishness to the point where merely throwing in the "thank you" passes for gentlemanliness. The glorification of sensation has ironically desensitized a significant part of a generation, and I can't even picture how much "enlightenment" is required to make this look like a good thing.

Even in evangelical circles the challenges are severe for parents with an eye to preparing their youth for healthy, happy marriages. The book "Best Friends for Life" by Michael and Judy Phillips includes several case studies of kids who grew up in "churched" families and dated other "churched" youth and eventually married - and then crashed and burned. Though each example had different characteristics, the common thing I saw in each was the parents really had no vision of what they wanted for their kids or what was acceptable - or if they did, they didn't communicate it. In many cases they gave in to the predominant dating model and were simply glad that their son or daughter was dating another Christian. As a result, the youngsters also fell into self-centered relationships in which they may have been physical, but they were far from intimate.

Is there another option? Well, I admit that the locking them in a tower until they're 30 plan has its strong points, but that doesn't do anything to prepare them for a strong marriage either. Our plan is the opposite of isolation, both the isolation of the tower where they are separated from others and the passion-induced isolation of being a couple where they separate themselves from others. We've encouraged our daughters to have a group of friends they can count on and do things as a group. Boys can be a part of this group, and are even encouraged, but no pairing up. The idea is to determine who can be trusted to be a friend - and not who just wants to get friendly.

What are the standards for friendship? The Bible lists some good ones (New Living Translation):

— Friends are few (Prov. 18:24) - "There are 'friends' who destroy each other, but a real friend sticks closer than a brother." We know the traditional concept of what a brother is, but think about what a brother is to a woman. A brother is someone who will stand by you and stand up for you because he wants the best for you, not because of what you can do for him.

— A friend lays down his life (John 15:13)"And here is how to measure it--the greatest love is shown when people lay down their lives for their friends." A friend puts your needs and well-being above his own.

— A friend loves unconditionally (Prov. 17:17) "A friend is always loyal, and a brother is born to help in time of need."

— A friend speaks the truth in love (Prov. 27:6)
"Wounds from a friend are better than many kisses from an enemy." A friend will tell you what you need to hear, again because he wants what is best for you. Someone caught up in infatuation or what he thinks is love will keep quiet so as not to jeopardize the physical aspects of the relationship.

— A friend encourages you and is sensitive to your needs (Prov. 26:18, 19) "Just as damaging as a mad man shooting a lethal weapon is someone who lies to a friend and then says, 'I was only joking.'"

If true friendships can be established in a safe environment where the emotional stakes are not as high, then the ground is prepared for a possible courtship with an eye toward marriage. In a true courtship, both partners learn to trust the other with more and more of their innermost thoughts, wishes and emotions. This relationship is the key to a successful marriage. Most modern marriages fall short of genuine intimacy due to a distorted cultural image of romanticism that expects immediate intimacy. Too many want to jump right to the courtship stage simply because the other person is cute or a "hottie." This might make for lovely wedding photos (or great tabloid covers) but is not much of a foundation for a lovely marriage.

I may appear pretty smug and overconfident seeing as how our oldest is just entering this dynamic time, but the rules and expectations have been set down and discussed for several years prior to this, and we do have wonderful examples in the lives of other parents and young marrieds we know who have crossed these waters ahead of us.

Truthfully, I don't expect it to be easy, but right now the relationship my wife and I have with our children is still the most important in their lives aside from the relationship they are developing with God. And part of our responsibility in this relationship is to prepare them for a relationship with God and for a loving and godly relationship with their spouse - and ultimately their own children who they, in turn, must train. It won't be the easiest course, but given what else is out there, I know it is the safest.

Bogus Gold recommended this post today about whether one man (or woman for that matter) can make a difference. I read the essay and was so taken with it that I went on to read many more offerings by the same blogger. As a result, Varifrank has been added to the Night Lights blogroll. A meager honor, to be sure, but all I can bestow. Aside from this, perhaps:

Varifrank offers exquisite writing of such skill and scope that it would have discouraged me from ever typing again - if it hadn't also inspired me to elevate my own game. In simpler words, this is really good stuff. Go read it.

Many are quick to bemoan the apparent callousness of our culture and characterize Americans as self-indulgent and self-interested. Yet when tragedy strikes, as in the recent tsunami or the Red Lake shootings, there is an immediate outpouring of concern, both spiritual and material, as we empathize with the victims and especially the survivors.

Given that, it has been interesting the past two weeks to consider the reaction of the American public to Terri Schiavo's predicament. If the polls are to be believed - and there is a certain gut level resonance to the findings, despite the questionable wording of ABC's version - a large majority of us thought Terri Schiavo should be "allowed" to die. While some might see this as a lack of empathy, I will hazard (and "hazard" is an apt word) a guess that it might be a matter of too much empathy.

One of Merriam-Webster's definitions of empathy is "the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner." People considered Terri's condition and had little trouble vicariously imagining themselves in similar straights - and didn't want to go there.

Most tragedies, like Red Lake and the tsunami, happen suddenly and move quickly into the aftermath. We identify with the suffering and are moved to do something. The Schiavo situation on the other hand was more forward looking and slow developing yet with an ugly, predictable outcome. It was almost like watching a victim in a horror movie walk down a dark, foggy alley as the scary music mounts. It's not that we, as viewers, necessarily want it to hurry up and be over, but confronting and empathizing with our own death or maiming is something we don't like to invest a lot of time in. As someone who has spent years in the life insurance and disability insurance business, I know this for a fact.

Many people looked at the circumstances, pictured themselves there, and thought "I wouldn't want to live like that." And because it was unpleasant to contemplate, they preferred not to look too closely. Fair enough - that was pretty much my attitude three weeks ago. But is there, truly, a fate worse than death?

We can glibly say that there is, putting a premium on our intellect and dignity, yet at the end find our heart and organs stubbornly refusing to give in. I've also heard that philosophy from those arguing that it is better for a baby to be aborted than be born disabled or into a cruel life where it is unwanted. Yet Joe Ford(cited below), who's doctor wanted to pull the plug on him when he was an infant, is one of many who would vehemently dispute that.

In fact, it appears that at least some disabled people view this attitude by able bodied people as being arrogant at best and bigoted at worst. Here's an excerpt from James Taranto's excellent commentary in today's Wall Street Journal, asking "Who will remember Terri?"

What lasting effect will the Terri Schiavo saga have on American politics? Probably not much. However intense the emotions of the past two weeks, for most voters they're sure to prove fleeting. But there's one important exception: disabled Americans. Some of the most impassioned arguments against killing Terri Schiavo came from profoundly handicapped people:

- Mary Johnson, left-leaning editor of Ragged Edge magazine: "There isn't a single disability rights activist I've heard from . . . who isn't afraid that this will make liberals hate them even more than they now do."

- Joe Ford, a Harvard undergraduate with severe cerebral palsy: "Like many others with disabilities, I believe that the American public, to one degree or another, holds that disabled people are better off dead. To put it in a simpler way, many Americans are bigots. A close examination of the facts of the Schiavo case reveals not a case of difficult decisions but a basic test of this country's decency." [See link below for more from Joe Horn. Ed.]

- Eleanor Smith, a self-described liberal agnostic lesbian, whose childhood bout with polio left her confined to a wheelchair: "At this point I would rather have a right-wing Christian decide my fate than an ACLU member." Ms. Smith protested last week outside the hospice where Mrs. Schiavo lay dehydrating and starving.

I'm not willing to go so far as to call it bigotry (which may be a sure sign that I am a bigot, at least in this area) but it is worth considering what affect our attitudes about disability had in our feelings about the Terri Schiavo case. More importantly, if we have as a society put our foot on that infamous slippery slope, it's worth considering what affect these attitudes may have on future care for those who appear to be profoundly disabled. It might be a good idea, then, to anchor our other foot in "Bigotry and the Murder of Terri Schiavo" by Harvard's Joe Ford. I think you'll find it both convicting and inspiring.