A tribute to a friend

I knew her first as Mrs. Taylor, Lynnda, my best friend’s mother. Then over the years I got permission to call her Jimmy (it seems Mrs. Taylor was her mother-in law!). She was a wonderful lady, full of stories about her father and the Boy Scouts. She glamorized her father in my eyes. Man she built him up, but I thought it was just the ramblings of a proud daughter. Someone who really loved her dad, no problems with that.

Then one sad day this July first I got an email from Lynnda, she was on her way to Missouri where her mother had gone for a speaking engagement at a Boys Scout function, (what else? Scouting was her life) fallen, started bleeding into her brain, went comatose and was only given hours to live. (She actually held on to July 4th, being patriotic she waited till the last firecracker popped before expiring!) That started four days of phone calls back and forth between Lynnda and me. Lynnda even emailed me the newspaper articles about her mother. Apparently her mother was big news in Kansas City. The only daughter and child of H. Roe Bartle. I was impressed. Still, to me, she had always been a wonderful lady, my best friend’s mother. Someone whose table I’d eaten at, whose house I’d spent the night in, who I went to Branson with, who babysat my dogs for me when I went out of town. She was Jimmy. Not just only daughter and child of H. Roe Bartle.

I had to “Google” this guy. There were volumes of hits with his name. Wow. Jimmy’s dad was famous, at least in his part of the country. He was friends of presidents, the FBI, governors…Ect... Ect. He started a Boy Scout tribe in Kansas that is one of a kind, fashioned after our American Indian Heritage. It still bears his name, The H. Roe Bartle Scout Reservation and it hosts thousands of scouts yearly. This guy was like an Apostle Paul impersonator, going about doing good works, and making a difference. His grave can even be viewed on findagrave.com.

Then I got the brainstorm to “Google” Jimmy. My friend’s mother also had her name plastered over the internet. Friend of Scouts. Motivational speaker. Only daughter of H. Roe Bartle. I was learning more about Jimmy Bartle Taylor than I knew when she was alive. Well maybe I‘d heard her mention these things over forty years in small slices and forgotten most of it but now I really researched her family and the scouts. I couldn’t get enough; reading about her brought her back to live. It was a crash course in history. But it all followed on the heels of her death. Why did I have to wait till she died to rediscover and discover all these things? I wish she was here now so I could ask her questions about her dad and about the scouts. Now I have to learn everything myself by reading.

When Lynnda got back home I went to see her. Jimmy’s house was right next door (she had recently bought a double wide trailer and set it on Lynnda’s lot so they could be close to each other) and I asked to walk through it in hopes of feeling her spirit or at the least just walking where she had walked. It had become hallow ground that would never be touched by her feet again. It had become sort of a shrine in my mind; her importance magnified in my imagination. No, she was still Jimmy, my friend, and my friend’s mother. She was very important to me because of who she was. I took two things from her house, mementoes. A bear magnet (it symbolized her tribal name of “Lone Bear Princess,” and another magnet that had a small picture of her in a red hat. Not worth much to anyone, but priceless to me. I’ll place them on my refrigerator so I, won’t forget her, not that that’s possible. Then I sat in Lynnda’s living room and watched a DVD they played at Jimmy’s funeral. From birth to death, there was her life. Awesome. The life of a woman going through life’s developmental stages, rites of passage. Sitting on granny’s lap, going to high school , getting married, having kids, grand kids, great grandkids. A normal woman. My friend. Lynnda’s mother. I was promised a copy. Thank you, Lynnda.

Why is it we learn more about people after they die? At funerals I’ve always discovered things about the honoree that I never knew when they were alive. All this reminds me of a man that lived two thousand years ago. He was someone’s son and friend. He ate with people, traveled with people and slept over at their houses. (I don’t know about babysitting pets?) He was not very famous while he was alive but after he died volumes have been written about him. He can be “Googled” and researched, made larger than life. He spent thirty years as someone’s son, the only son and child of God, the firstborn actually. He was the first Boy Scout, on a mission to build his entourage of twelve. He spent three years going about doing good and making motivational speeches then he died. I bet very little was written about him while he breathed, except maybe on wanted posters. (He still is on wanted posters!) Volumes have been written since. I still research him daily, reading about him in the gospels and epistles. People travel to wear he lived, to walk the hallow grounds his feet had touched. We can’t find his grave on findagrave.com because it’s empty! Sometimes it takes death to get our energy directed on the correct path. If Jimmy hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have spent so much time reading about her, if Jesus hadn’t died (an don’t forget rose again) no one would be interested in reading about him. Do you think he’s worth investigating? Reading about him could bring him back to life, in your heart! Google him and find out what could be a new revelation for you.

post independence day reflections

It's independence Day. A day we celebrate our independence from a foreign dictator, a king who cared nothing about us except for our revenue potential. We were just another feather in his cap, er, crown, in the race to own more and more of the globe. He taxed us to replace the money spent on his wars. Wars to increase his domain, which we were just another part of. We fought to be free of a King who lived across the ocean and taxed us without representation. Many died for that freedom. Young kids who hunkered down next to fathers(mothers), brothers (sisters), uncles (aunts) and neighbors with guns firing away at other men and dying for their country, far away from blood relatives and friends . Lots of innocent men died for us to have our freedom. A freedom that is actually vanishing bit by bit over the years as our taxes increase(again), (let's not mention the role of the IRS in robbing us of our peace of minds) our jobs lay us off, Homeland Security makes new laws to track, fingerprint and x-ray us before we get on a plane just to name a few .

We celebrate this day, Independence Day, whole heartedly, caping it off with tremendous displays of fireworks nationwide and even from house to house.Even though that was over two hundred and thirty three years ago and we never experienced the same tyranny and oppression. Living in the land of the free we know very little about tyranny and oppression except from the news and stories of soldiers returning from countries torn by civil wars. Thousands of us gather in parks to ooh and ahh through "rocket's red glare", after "rocket's red glare" and wear star spangled banner decorated t-shirts and hats. Yes we are glad to be free. Yes we honour those that gave us that freedom.

But a celebration even greater goes on high above us, in a galaxy far, far away. Whenever one of us, and it only takes one, chooses to become dependent on a king far, far away, yet closer than we can even imagine,(I hear he lives within our hearts!) angels set off a gala that makes ours look like a bash thrown with dime store products. (And we each get personal fireworks, yes our very own!) When we become dependent on God we have freedom bought at the price of only one man, only one innocent man's blood was shed, and he is our representation before the Almighty, representing a people he has actually spent time with on earth. Time he used developing a personal relationships. This King, in a far away galaxy, truthfully cares for each one of us as individuals. There is nothing we can give him financially to keep him happy, he has no need to increase his domain, as everything the eyes can see, and can't, already belong to him. You see, that foreign king, years ago, died trying to own land that wasn't his, it was only on loan from one higher than him, it was an illusion that this country belonged to him. Whereas our dependence on the Great Almighty is more real than anything seen by flesh and blood, the unseen being far greater than things seen. And tracking us, not a problem for me, I find great comfort in knowing he really does know where I am at all times, and it is reciprocated, as I know where to find him whenever I'm in trouble; In my heart.

I truly appreciate those who gave their lives for our national freedom and God given rights but I'm more thankful that I had the sense to give up my independence to a King who became a sacrifice for us and whose kingdom people are dying to get into.

Psalm 50:10
Luke 15:7
2 Corin. 4:18
eph. 4:16
Col. 1:13-16

memorial day weekend

“Thanks, but I already have plans for the day," I informed my friend who just invited me over for a day of barbequing and swimming. That was how most of America was spending the day. It was a three day weekend and most people could do this activity any weekend of the year but they make a big deal of it on this particular day. Eating drinking, swimming. That is all this day meant to most people; a time to get together and be a family and enjoy one extra day off work. At least an extra day off if you weren't in the food or merchandise industry. Or the gas industry. Or entertainment industry. The malls would be packed with bargain hunters, sales would be rampant using the day as a reason for extra profits. Movie goers would be out in droves, getting away from routine. Though nowadays, shopping, eating out and going to movies was routine. And profits would be made, no matter how big the sale percentage. Merchants weren't giving stuff away! Besides, most people don't limit themselves to just what's on sale.

My husband and I went to my dad's house and loaded him up into the car, putting his walker into the trunk with his spare oxygen tank. This was dad’s day. He looked forward to this day every year. As a survivor of WWII, the Korean War, and Viet Nam, this was his holiday. I loaded the car with our projects and we took off. We went to the neighborhood cemetery and hunted down his friends. Strange we always had trouble finding them, it's not like they were very mobile. With a walker and oxygen dad was in better health than they were! This was the only occasion he felt complaining about his health was ungracious, walking down the rows of name plaques! He stuck little flags by the names of his service friends. Their kids had not done this, and he mumbled some unkind words about their neglecting their obligations. I think mostly he complained just to make sure I was aware that I would be held accountable for decorating his grave when the time comes. (Knock on wood that better be some time from now!)

After we finished our flag placing chore, we headed off to the main part of his celebration. The Dallas National Cemetery. It was unbelievable. No matter how much time I allow to get there the traffic is so thick inside the grounds we crawled along at a snail’s pace, by hundreds of new graves  buried under blankets of fresh flowers watered with tears. Every day sees the addition of new members at a rate of 19,500 a year. Cars were parked along the route and people milled about the grounds. I caught sight of a man and woman on the grass beside a flowery decorated tombstone. The woman was crying, the man was comforting. This is a customary sight here. Some things shouldn't become customary. Flowers were all over the place. People were pushing baby strollers down rows of graves looking for their daddy or uncle or brother(or female counterparts). Flags were flying everywhere.

Closer to our destination we were directed where to park on the grass. Cars, Trucks. Vans. Motorcycles. Ambulances. TV crews. Care flight personal. Portable potties. Scads of people were heading towards the presentation sight. Dressed in shorts, slacks, uniforms, suits, dresses. Every possible combination of red, white and blue was covered. Red, white and blue on ties, t-shirts, scarves, handbags, hats, umbrellas, baby diapers, Flags lined the road every twenty feet. Hundreds of them. I wondered how much time it would take to lower them tonight. There were several tents up on center stage filled with important looking dignitaries and military personal, from every service, and a school choir dressed in green tops and beige pants or skirts. Red, white and blue drapes hung over their heads.

The ceremony started with introductions of generals, the Governor, the funeral director. Then three planes were heard approaching. Approaching. Nearer. Nearer. They were in sight now; three planes in formation flew overhead. They were punctual, precise timing. They had left their stations on the second to make a show at the correct minute, in tribute to the somber observance. I wished I had anticipated that to get a picture, I was awed by the formation and the planning. However I did get pictures. Pictures of the crowd sitting on lawn chairs, blankets on the ground, the brick wall lining the area. People with water jugs, umbrellas to shade them from the stifling heat of the sun, large protective hats. People dressed in uniforms. They must be really hot. I got a picture of my husband walking beside my dad, holding an umbrella over his head.

The presentation lasted longer than I thought it should in the middle of a hot, humid day. I worried about the old timers present. This could throw their systems out of whack. I worried about my dad. He had spent time in the emergency room once for dehydration brought on by a baseball game, but he wouldn't miss this day. We stayed ahead of things, keeping him properly hydrated, yet at the same time on the verge of dehydration to prevent congestive heart failure symptoms. Jugglers had nothing on me! It was comforting to know that ambulances and medical personal were on the grounds.

Even though,as I said before, the presentation lasted longer that I thought it should, none of these vets, their families, or relatives of the recent victims of Iraq and Afghanistan  complained. They hadn't gone to the movies or the malls today. They came to honor Memorial Day properly. Those not here weren't thinking of the reason they had a three day weekend, they were enjoying a paid day off. Memorial Day meant more to those in attendance here. It meant someone died for the population to spend the day however they wanted. Not under a dictatorship. Not in a civil war. Not scrounging for food. Not part of a genocide committee. Not threatened daily with rape or casual murder.

The ceremony was concluded by a roll call of the recently interred. As the names fell on our hearts a crisply dressed serviceman placed a rose on one of several draped chairs that represented either the Navy, Army, Air force, Marines, or Coast Guards. The families were then invited to collect the rose from the chair representing their sacrifice. A rose. A rose with a thorn. The thorn would draw blood, representing the blood shed for our country.

This is the current Memorial day, but the true Memorial day started years ago. It started on a cross where a savior died for our freedoms. When I mentioned that to my dad he retorted with, "Jesus didn't die on Memorial Day!" No. Dad could only think of his fallen comrades today but maybe latter tonight he'll think of Jesus and thank him for freeing him from slavery to sin and an eternity in hell. In that case, every day should be Memorial Day.

christian fiction?

Now I know my stories in for Hope’s Sake are Christian fiction but they are based on the realism of the bible. The bible teaches that angels are present among us to be our servants as ministering spirits and that is the nucleus of most of my stories. I write as though the veil of the invisible world is open. Well, this weekend it was opened even further, to give me hope and consolation.

It seems that at 11:00 P.M while I was physically dead, an event that happens regularly to me when I close my eyes, my father fell, cut his head open and lost three plus quarts of blood. That is a lot of blood. (I wonder how it was actually measured as it was spilt between his house, my daughter in law’s car and the emergency room) My daughter in law, who lives with him, heard him fall, rushed him to the emergency room faster than an ambulance would have gotten to him while my son tried repeatedly to get me to answer the phone. Like I said, I was dead. Corpses can’t respond to the incessant ringing that must have taken place inches from my ears. About two hours into my death though, I was finally summoned back to earth by the jarring of the phone. Looking at the caller I.D I thought, ‘’Who is that?” and decided to answer because of the lateness of the hour.

“It’s okay now, we’re going home,” a disembodied voice announced.

“What’s okay and who are you?” I mumbled groggily. I wasn’t groggy for long.

“Grandpa is going home now.” Was my answer

I was instantly alert recognizing my daughter in law’s, Susan’s, voice. “What are you talking about?”Then came the explanation. Dad had lost his balance going to the bathroom; fell against the wall causing the whole house to shudder alerting my daughter in law and son who hadn’t fallen asleep yet. They found him on the floor in a pool of red fluid. Susan ordered my son to call me while she rushed Dad to the car instructing Bryan, my son, the whole while to clean the blood up before the dogs and cats got a taste of it (it seems she feared this would cause the family pets to relish the taste of human flesh, at this point I pictured Dad’s eight week old kitten becoming a carnivorous beast sitting on his chest late at night with a fork and knife!) She got him to the hospital faster than it would have taken for an ambulance to arrive. While on the table in the emergency room the doctor’s swore because they couldn’t staunch the blood flow. Blood was everywhere, except in dad’s circulatory system. Dad was certain he was dying from the entire hullabaloo going on around him. Then, suddenly.. a face pressed up against Dad’s. An old wrinkled face. Within seconds it vanished and he caught a glimpse of feathers; wings. He was confident his guardian angel had arrived…and left without him. Latter when dad himself revealed this visit to me, he assumed that this angel had been with him since he was born. He was curious though about the wrinkles, he thought angels were young. I reminded him that Della Reese (Touched by an Angel) wasn’t young, or thin for that matter, so angels can be old and plump it they want to be. (Don’t bother to tell me that was just a show. I consider it one of T.V’s first reality shows!)

So even though my stories are fictional accounts of angelic interventions I really believe there is a host of invisible warriors in the air about us. The unseen world being more real than the seen.

The story could have ended in a much gloomier note; if Bryan and Susan had already fallen asleep dad would have expired on the kitchen floor. If Susan hadn’t been a good speed racer Dad wouldn’t have gotten to the hospital in time. And if Bryan hadn’t stayed behind to clean up the bloody kitchen a poor innocent kitten and two dogs would have been enticed into devouring humans!(is there a twelve step program for that?) As it is, in Dad’s mind, things didn’t turn out so good. They had to keep him in the hospital for a few days to give him blood. (Come on dad, you lost quite a bit!) Then he was sent to a rehab unit to get his strength back. (Again, come on Dad, you lost quite a bit). But, thanks to his guardian angel, he will live to see his house again.


2 Corinthians 4:16-18
Hebrews 1:14

Global Warming?

Worried about global warming? I am also, but I’m more worried about why people are asking the wrong questions and seeking for the wrong answers. Literature is out there where people decades back predicted the impact we were having on our ecosystem. Just thirty or so years ago I remember hearing about hairsprays and spray deodorants doing something to the ozone layers. So obviously we’ve walked around with blind folders and ear plugs, ignoring the warnings of educated men.

Did I say we were warned decades ago? What about millennia ago? The book of Revelation was written by an elderly man, with no expertise in science, on a deserted prison island who predicted things like changes in the stars such as meteorites landing in rivers and oceans, and a sun gone awol, as in the collapse of a supernova. I remember in science class, when I was just thirteen, hearing about our sun’s future and worrying about my descendants dying, millions of years from now when our sun exploded! Do you think the astrologists back in 100 A.D knew we wouldn’t have a sun someday? The apostle John did and he didn’t get his information from the local newspapers. But his good news was it would be replaced by the presence of God and we wouldn’t be walking in darkness anymore.

With the oceans swelling due to melted ice water from the poles, millions of people will be displaced; crowded infrastructures won’t be able to handle the influx. Our cities are built around concrete that attracts heat, increases carbon dioxide emissions, reduces walking paths,(which affects our health, and encourages usage of ecosystem unfriendly cars) and prevents rain water from being reabsorbed into the earth as runoff, causing even more flooding and destruction. Famine and pestilence have figured heavily in our past as well as our future, no arguing with that, so it’s easy to miss the connection with world events and the gospels if you want to remain ignorant of the truth. The truth is that global warming is really a global “warning” sent to us by God as he keeps us informed of his plans for our eternal outlook.

The question is not how are we going to prevent global warming, but can we read the signs of the times? Why aren’t people seeing a connection between biblical prophecy and current events? Is it too farfetched to see the similarities in the book of revelation and what’s happening today? To recognize that our solar system is spreading out as scientist have discovered? Yes, I believe in the big bang theory, the solar system is moving outwards, expanding, causing changes on our earth that have been predicted for our warning. God didn’t want us to be ignorant. But some of us are. We walk around with blinders thinking we can reverse what God set in motion through his prophesies. Oh, I’m not against being a good steward of our recourses but I’m not convinced anything we do now can prevent the unpreventable, the dawning of a new heaven and earth wherein dwelleth righteousness and is illuminated by the glory of God.


Isaiah 48:3-5
Rev 8:7-11
Rev 16:8-9
Rev. 21:23

Summary
There is a bigger problem than global warming. The problem is in the failure to realize the real cause of today’s events. The only solution is following the lord and resting in his promices.

the doctor's prediction

My dad is eighty two and has been around the block more than once. Ever since I’ve known him, almost fifty two years now, (so you can assume I knew him before I was born by about twenty years!) he’s been at death’s door, cheating it with fervor. Well, truthfully, since I was nineteen I’ve been aware of his mortality. I recall going to bed concerned he wouldn’t see me finish college after having spent the day with him in ICU after a heart attack. Added to that was my fear I’d have to care for my mother who had never been on her own. She didn’t even know how to write checks! I’m grateful I didn’t develop ulcers from all the futile worrying.

Well, nineteen from fifty two is thirty three years of growing, adjusting, living in faith. Leaving things in God’s masterful hands. My mother in fact died first, at a young sixty six of breast cancer, surprising us all, as her health, we thought, was better than dad’s whose always been on the wobbly side of the coin. I truly feared dad would terminate himself on her death bed. I’d never heard a wail so horrifying when he witnessed her taking her last breath on this earth. I braced myself to be his buttress careful to not let him grieve himself to death, placing my anguish down good and deep.

But I digress, so back to dad. First were his heart issues that he inherited from a father who died at forty nine, then came head and neck cancer which yielded a perpetual feeding tube, congestive heart failure, then prostate difficulties, a broken shoulder, hip, hands, falling spells, from ignoring my nagging about using his walker! But he has miraculously trekked on; God in his infinite wisdom knows I’m not ready to let him go yet. I’m not prepared to be an orphan, not till I’m at least sixty.

Over time as his health concerns mounted I’ve slipped into the role of his principal caregiver, with minimal reliable help from anyone else. It has not been a hardship, but a privilege to repay him for years of fatherly love and care. I’ve kept abreast of current health trends and kept dad on the cutting edge of my learned wisdom. When his congestive heart failure was at its worst I had him hospitalized, treated with diuretics and improved. (at one point the doctor told me if dad continued his downward decline he’s been gone in six months) Through trial and error I discovered that his interests were best served by keeping him dehydrated and exercised. His primary physician and I have worked as a team to enhance dad’s condition so well congestive heart failure is spoken of in the past tense now, and we raised his ejection fraction (an important heart function) to just below normal, up from just above about dead!

So when I missed dad’s last appointment with his cardiologist (check out the word, last!) I was stunned to find dad at the elevators, puffing on his oxygen canulla and pushing his walker, ready to go home on the verge of tears, with the news that he was only given two to three years left to live due to leaky valves(heart structures). We knew he had this problem for years, and we had agreed surgery would not be wise with his other conditions, i.e., lung issues, feeding tube, and inability to lie flat for any procedure, to name a few. But to tell someone in his eighties that he only could look forward to just a scant three years at the most…well I was so infuriated I marched back into the office and demanded of the receptionist to see Dr. Arrogant. Dad came up behind me and tried to stop me, but I brusquely (with the utmost reverence) told him to go sit down, I would take care of this.

Dad tried twice to get me to listen to him, and finally succeeded when he said, “But I didn’t see Dr. Arrogant, I saw someone else.”

With egg on my face I turned to the surprised nurse and pointedly asked, “All right, I want to talk to the doctor who he saw!” pointing my fingers at dad.

“Is there a problem?” she queried. What fantastic observational skills.

I was tempted to respond with, ”No, I just want to see how he’s doing today,” but instead I verbalized, “Yes, there’s a problem!”

“Well, he’s with a patient right now,”

“I don’t care, get him!” Maybe I was sparing some other patient from getting upsetting news.

We were ushered (swiftly) into a private hallway, presumably to prevent panic from erupting in the waiting room, where a young resident extended his hands to me as though this was going to be a cordial get together. To avoid any miscommunication I requested that this young kid, with the confetti from his high school graduation still clinging to his hair, tell me exactly what he told my dad. From the tone of my voice and a long relationship with my temper, dad decided to abscond and let the doctor work out his own survival system.

“Well, he has some leaky valves and I informed him at his age and with his problems he could only expect another two to three years, but I assured him he could beat the odds.”

Enough said, I thought, and launched into the past thirty plus years of health issues, and overcoming odds.Startng with most people with head and neck cancer and feeding tubes rarely live seventeen years extra and ending with, “He’s 82, he doesn’t expect to live forever, he knows he could die tonight, I know that, I’m 52, I could die tonight, but you’re going to die now!” I scanned the area for security cameras after the words slipped past my filter system and floated on the air between us.

Keeping his composure, I’m guessing from confronting lots of angry family members, made outraged from his inexperienced theory on informing the patients of their prognosis’s, he politely explained, “I feel that patients have a right to know what to expect.”

“Well I feel that only God can make those expectations. At eighty two, three years is a life time, and for him it’s three years you robbed of the joy of living!” With that I turned my back and departed, sure that I made no impact on Dr. Inappropriate but feeling the carthartic release of venting.

What followed was days of encouraging dad to look at all the other mis-information people have received, starting with his boyhood friend who had been told he was beyond help and was given a forty ninth wedding anniversary party by his kids because they didn’t expect him to make another year. That was what? Eight years ago. Who was wrong about that? The doctor of course. There was a long list of soothing stories but dad wallowed in self pity none the less. I even revealed to dad that all the doctors I work with contended that Dr. Inappropriate had over stepped his credentials.

It’s taken some time but now dad no longer tells everyone he meets he's dying soon, but I’m not sure how often it encroaches in his thoughts. I have been counter fighting a slowly encroaching inactivity on his part. It's like he's given up and realizes the fight is almost over, This is referred to as a self fulfulling prophesy. The point of this? Doctor’s, no one for that matter, can tell us when we are going to die. Of course there is a certain predictability with some health issues, that is the reason Hospice provides a useful service, but even they miss the mark occasionally, carrying patients for longer than the six month duration, even removing some from their rosters because of failure to die! Let’s not lose hope. Only God knows when he'll call home, and that life expectancy is a lot longer than two to three years.

Duet. 32:39
Eccl. 9:11
James 4:13-14


summary
we rely on doctors for so much, but sometimes they tend to overstep thier wisdom. Doctors are given their wisdom from God but they need a touch of common sense. See how one doctor changed the life of a man and what the consequense were.

don't ignore china

I couldn’t help myself. I clicked on one picture after another. Rubble. Tears. Bodies. Children. Old, young. Civilian, soldiers. It was mesmerizing. It was depressing. Other people I knew refused to look at the pictures, the hopelessness of the situation made them too despondent. Why let something continents away affect their daily lives?

Here were pictures of women holding, no clutching, each other, trying to find the strength to take another breath in the light of their devastation. They lost husbands, parents, children. No, they lost a child. With the one child policy survivors had no sisters, brothers, aunts or uncles to turn to. Parents lost their only children, grandparents lost their only grandchild. Eighty year olds lost their child, grandchild and husbands or wives.

Pictures enlightened me on the nation I never knew. They had houses just like us, they had hospitals, just like us. They had roads, apartments, washing machines, school, cars, bikes. They dressed like us; jeans, t-shirts, nightgowns, jackets, tennis shoes, helmets. They sent their kids to school, just like us, expecting to see them again at the end of the day coming up the drive way with their empty lunch boxes and homework, tired expressions on their faces, ready to unwind with a snack. But that wouldn’t be anymore, after seven thousand schools were smashed from possibly shoddy construction, leaving colorful backpacks, lunch kits with animated pictures and student I.D’s scattered in the wreckage.

The pictures were grisly. Here was a picture of a child buried under cement. Trapped under cement. The picture just showed her face (a face that is seared in my memory) as workers cut off her left leg to release her. Here was a boy lying in a hospital bed, minus his arms, with his mother beside him. I wonder what she was thinking. Was she grateful her son was still alive? Or horrified at the life he would now lead? Would he rise above his circumstances and be a winner or would he fall prey to endless self pity and despondency.

There were some soldiers and other survivors holding people back from the bodies of their relatives. Why? Would falling on the bodies make the sorrow any worse? Would it not yield closure? How much more dramatic would it be to fling yourself on your dead husband, wife, child as opposed to being held back? What is the purpose in that? They all suffered loss, why care about someone else’s reaction? They cared for each other, just like we do.

There were several pictures of survivors, bandaged up, using homemade crutches and stretchers, getting ready for a nine hour walk to make-shift shelters. Evacuating in a hurry to avoid being flooded by the risk of collapsing dams, more drama, and more destruction. Leaving everything behind, not on purpose but because where was it? Buried under mudslides and rubble. Destroyed. These were people lucky enough to be carrying kids, holding hands of wives, parents. Going to a shelter for what? Would there be supplies aplenty for them? Water, food, clothing, protection from the elements?

There were pictures of the military digging, masks over their faces to minimize the stench and prevent the spread of disease from decomposing bodies. Rescue work isn’t pleasant, but it has it rewards, like finding a pregnant woman and her mother still alive! Shouts went up everywhere as they were extricated and sent to the hospital. Life would go on. Then the return to reality, digging for more survivors, victims. Who really were the lucky ones? The people that died right away, that wouldn’t have to try to cope, hunt for food, and beg for water? Wouldn’t have to wait for help; look for family they would never see again lying in body bags? Grieve?

The military sees its share of the unpleasant but will these rescuers suffer post traumatic distress syndrome? The rescuers at the World Trade Centers did. It’s hard to cope with so much death all in one place, finding bodies, burying bodies in mass graves, burning bodies on pyres. I know the survivors will go through years of mental anguish, loneliness. Hopelessness.

Hopeless. What can I do to give hope? I can send some money for supplies so the refugees can have food when they get to shelters. Food, water, medical supplies, tents cost money. Rebuilding a country takes money.

I got on the phone after hours of picture viewing and praying. Of getting to know the faces of survivors and seeing their torment. Of seeing how much like me they were. People with emotions and needs hit by something beyond their control, something done at random, unpredictable. The groaning of the earth. We have had our fights with nature also. Tornadoes, hurricanes, volcanoes, earthquakes, lightening strikes burning up the country side, and that’s just the damage from nature! It would be fantastic to know that humanity, no matter what their religion or culture, would pull together on this ship called earth and support each other.

I got on the internet and found the American Red Cross, where I made a donation that they would send to the Red Cross Society of China.( China has a red cross? That’s the beginning of optimism). Considering the enormity of the problem what I sent was trifling, an insult really. But it would buy more than “nothing” would. Then I called my friends and suggested they do the same, the little “nothing” they could contribute would build up to more supplies. More than “nothing” would yield.

Hopeless. What else could I do? Pray. After I took action and sent funds, prayer was next on my list, or was it first? Did the quiet praying I did as I viewed the pictures inspire me to send donations? I would pray for hours, days and years. Pray for the surivors. Pray for us. But for the grace of God, there go we.