The Rivers of my Life Podcast: Recent Episodes

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Hello readers, I have an exciting update for you, and perhaps one I should have shared sooner. Part of my procrastination is due to the fact that I have a one-track mind, and my thoughts on climate change were so close to the surface that I felt I had to strike while the iron is hot, as they say. But to be honest, part of the procrastination was due to the fact that as much as I had been eagerly anticipating this event, I was in a weird emotional state afterward that I didn’t expect, and therefore wasn’t sure how to write about it.

The big news is that on May 12, in a commencement ceremony that began at 3:30 in the afternoon, I officially graduated with a certificate in Christian Studies from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. I find it quite ironic and fitting that this certificate which the pandemic inspired me to seek was formally issued the day after the United States officially declared the pandemic emergency behind us, symbolically marking, for both the country and me, the close of one chapter and the beginning of a new, uncertain one.

I did not actually attend the ceremony in-person. Given that I took all of my courses online, I did not feel a personal connection to the campus like I did when I graduated from Carroll University, and I think this would have made it especially awkward to ask for assistance with the logistics like finding my way across the stage. But my name was called out on the livestream as someone graduating in absentia. The funny thing was, since they didn’t know me either, they mispronounced my last name, but that’s alright. I had lots of company though, with several names I recognized from my classes also graduating in absentia. In one sense, it felt strange, like something important was missing by not attending in-person. I completely understand why high school and college students who had no choice but a virtual commencement during the pandemic were sad. There is something special about dressing up in the cap and gown, the pageantry of processing in, and moving the tassel on your cap from right to left, about hearing your name called, walking across the stage and hearing friends and loved ones cheer for you. I do worry about what might be lost with the trend toward online college degrees if everyone in future generations gets an education disconnected from the history and tradition of campus life topped off with commencement. Also, given that I think the video of the ceremony will be available at least until next May, it didn’t seem necessary to ask family to block off the commencement ceremony time on the calendar, so I believe Grandma had a doctor appointment my parents drove her to while I tuned in to commencement from my bedroom. But that evening when they got home, Mom made one of my favorite dinners, taco meat and refried beans over cauliflower rice, and I told them all about the ceremony, so I still felt as though the day was special.

It was a joyful but dignified ceremony. Graduates processed into the chapel to the traditional graduation processional played on the organ, two readings were selected—Isaiah 55:8-12 and 2 Timothy 4:1-8—and the congregation sang a couple hymns, also played on the organ. I wish I could tell you which hymns, but they were not hymns I was familiar with. A print program from the ceremony was mailed to me along with the leather diploma cover for my official certificate, which was mailed separately and arrived July 1. The names and lyrics of the hymns are probably listed in the print program, but I could not find a digital copy of the program. But that is alright. What matters is they were beautiful. The ceremony actually reminded me more of the Catholic mass I attended every week growing up, than the evangelical worship I had gotten used to with modern songs and a praise band, but I found this solemn style refreshing. But the best part of the ceremony was the keynote address, given by Sanji Lukas, a 1992 graduate of Trinity, and the founder of Reaching India Ministries International. I think he also spoke at our church for HarvestFest last October.

White American pastors give excellent, biblically sound sermons, but international speakers take preaching and Christian devotion to a whole new level, perhaps because persecution of Christians—real, brutal persecution, not the persecution Christian nationalists say Christians in America face when they cannot say Merry Christmas or display the ten commandments in a government building—is rampant in the global south, and much of the global south is still unreached by the gospel. When I was a new Evangelical, I was familiar with the concept of people struggling with figurative demons like alcoholism or pride, but I found it strange at first when international speakers would mention that loved ones had once been literally possessed by demons, which Sanji Lukas talks about in his speech. He also talks about a member of his family miraculously healed from epilepsy in Trinity’s chapel. You just don’t really hear about literal demon possession or miraculous healing happening in America. But a pastor once explained that because these parts of the world face persecution and have limited if any access to the Bible, God intervenes supernaturally to reach people through visions and miraculous healing, and the devil works harder in these parts of the world too.

Sanji Lukas outlined four seeds necessary for fruitful ministry. We must preach the word, trusting in the sufficiency of God’s word, and believing in the power of the gospel to change lives. We must pray earnestly because prayer is how Paul was able to do great things despite many challenges, and because prayer purifies the heart and protects us from the devil’s schemes. We must partner with others because ministry in isolation is unbiblical and dangerous. Finally, we must persevere with great confidence because while challenges today have caused many to give up on ministry, we are called to suffer and persevere knowing that at the proper time, we will reap a harvest (Galatians 6:9). I have summarized the gist of his speech here to preserve the memory of it because after next year’s commencement ceremony, this video may no longer be available, but if you are reading this before May 2024, I strongly encourage you to listen to his speech, as his delivery is amazing, and like I said, you just don’t get that level of passion and sincerity from white American pastors.

But getting back to my weird emotional state, this state was actually not at all simply due to forfeiting the pageantry of in-person commencement. In fact, I wonder if had I attended commencement in-person, I might have been distracted by the pageantry, thinking about walking across the stage, the celebration with family afterward, that I might not have paid as close attention to Sanji Lukas’s speech. My weird emotional state was due to the fact that when I decided to pursue this certificate during the pandemic, I sensed God calling me to some kind of ministry. I knew after taking the Spiritual Formation class in 2021 that I did not want to be a pastor, as I read several chapters in this class about church growth and how to stay spiritually grounded and healthy in this demanding vocation that just left a bad taste in my mouth. I thought I might be suited to chaplaincy, but sensed God whispering this may not be a good fit for me every time I visited Granny in the nursing home. So as much as I enjoyed these courses and the much deeper understanding and appreciation for the Bible which I have gained from them, I felt just as unsure of God’s calling for my life as I did when I started, but the longing to do something besides work a secular job and live a comfortable, privileged life was now even stronger than ever. But then on June 11, the sermon in church was on the Parable of the Lost Sheep, and the pastor used as one of his illustrations, a story of how years ago on a family vacation, him and his wife were terrified when they realized they had lost track of their young daughter. She was quickly found, happily looking at something in a shop window, and didn’t even seem to realize she was lost. With this illustration, all of the passionate essays I have written about social justice issues and the alarming number of Christians who support policies that are not Christian at all came to mind, and I sensed God might be whispering to me, “why don’t you make that your ministry? All of those Christians who subscribe to the dangerous ideology of Christian nationalism are like lost sheep who do not realize they are lost. Of course, only God knows what is in each person’s heart, and I believe God is more than capable of sorting out who are the true wolves in sheep’s clothing, and who are the innocent victims of these wolves whose hearts are good but who don’t realize they have been misled. Traditionally, Christian missions have focused on those in need of salvation, those who are unreached or have never heard the gospel, or on people who grew up going to church but never made a personal commitment to follow Christ. This prioritization is understandable because once someone has accepted Christ, their salvation is secure. Once we have accepted Christ, we should do our best to turn away from sin, but the reality is, we live in a fallen world and will always be works in progress this side of heaven. If the occasional racist comment or nationalistic attitude were all it took to lose your salvation, no one would qualify for heaven, and in fact it is because we are all undeserving of salvation that Christ came and sacrificed his life for the sins of the world. But I believe biblically sound churches who recognize that Christian nationalism is not really Christian at all but don’t want to offend anyone by addressing this issue directly are making a mistake because these innocent sheep who have been led astray are giving Christianity a bad name, making it uninviting to a watching world, especially young people, and in this way are indirectly preventing many from coming to Christ and receiving salvation. My heart also breaks for these lost sheep because they are not strangers from some distant land. They are our friends, neighbors, Bible study classmates, members of our extended family. They are people we know and love, nice people who you can count on to pray for you, and support you in a time of need. And yet they have been led astray by partisan media that is very slick and almost sounds Christian, but is anything but when you listen more closely.

Our church recently hired a new senior pastor, and he delivered his first sermon on July 9. It was an excellent sermon which he used to outline his values and vision for our church. One of his insights was that we need to be a church of engagement rather than entitlement. There was a time when Christianity was the only show in town, and the church was often the tallest building in town. This is no longer the case, but rather than lamenting or fighting this reality, we must engage with the culture, present the gospel in a winsome, compelling way. When he said this, it occurred to me that at the root of Christian Nationalism is an attitude of entitlement. Rather than engage in the slow but ultimately rewarding work of presenting the gospel in a loving, winsome way to one friend, neighbor, coworker at a time, Christian Nationalism seeks to use the power of the state to impose Christianity on society, dishonoring the beautiful concept of religious liberty that this country’s founders intended, and distorting the Christian gospel in the process. This sermon inspired me to send him a letter asking if the church might partner with me in facilitating a life group that directly addresses this ideology. Christians Against Christian Nationalism has a free curriculum based on a podcast series they hosted on the subject, or the class could be a sort of book club as I have read several excellent books on this subject, including Twelve Lies that Hold America Captive, which I wrote about here. I am still waiting to hear back from him, but Mom cautioned me not to be discouraged if the church says no as they may not want to do anything controversial like this. I also recognize that I may be a bit full of myself, freshly graduated from a renowned seminary with a Certificate in Christian Studies, so I will have the humility to accept that church leaders with more education and life experience may have perspective that I don’t have. But regardless of whether or not the church supports me facilitating a life group, I felt inspired to start a blog, Lost Sheep in the Church. It is my goal to post to this blog once a week. The posts on this blog will be much shorter than what I write here. There are a lot of writers on this subject far more qualified than I am who have written excellent, academic essays on the subject, most notably Red Letter Christians, but my aim is to provide bite-size food for thought, in a casual, accessible tone. I also promised that this blog would not be overtly political, as Jesus was neither a Democrat nor a Republican, and all earthly governments fall far short of God’s righteous standards. Donald Trump is merely an extreme manifestation of an ideology that can be traced back to 1630, and this ideology unfortunately will most likely persist long after Donald Trump and those like him are out of the picture. I recognize that only God has the power to change hearts, and that this little blog is the David against the Goliath of partisan media. But what a privilege it would be if I could play a small part in restoring Christianity’s reputation in this country, gently guiding lost sheep back to the true Christianity, and in the process, making the gospel compelling again in our pluralistic culture. I encourage you to check it out, and if you know of any friends, neighbors, family that might benefit, feel free to share it with them. And if you are Christian, please pray for my little ministry, most importantly, that my blog never takes on a self-righteous, judgmental tone, a temptation I fear I could succumb to. Who knows. Maybe if I and like-minded Christians preach the true gospel, pray, partner with one another and persevere, we can bring about the revival of Christianity that evangelicals dream of.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theriversoflife.substack.com

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So how do we live in harmony with one another, and the orchestra of Creation, over whom God is the Conductor? It is true that we cannot continue business as usual. I remember a teacher in high school citing a statistic that if everyone lived as decadently as we do in the West, we would need something like 4.5 planets. And yet, people in developing countries, understandably aspire to live as comfortably as us, and their resentment of policies that penalize their carbon emissions when the West had free reign to develop unrestricted for hundreds of years is understandable too. But the fact is, the effects of climate change do not respect borders or care about geopolitics. Given our better understanding of climate change and how our behavior has contributed to it, we in the West need to repent for the culture of consumerism we developed, and we all need to put politics and grievances aside and find a way to move forward toward a more sustainable future together. To incorporate another analogy, we all need to go on a diet, curtail our gluttonous consumerism and figure out what we actually need to thrive. I believe we can survive, even thrive with less.

But what I found when I changed the way I eat is that it has not meant a life of misery, tiny, unsatisfying portions of gross food. I like to think of Glenn Beck's dystopian view of environmental restoration as this kind of diet. Despite all of the evidence that climate change is a real existential threat, Christian Nationalists like him view climate change as nothing more than a conspiracy for government control. Antihumanists by contrast, recognize that climate change is a real threat, but feel that our condition is so hopeless we should just do our best to get through life, hope maybe a catastrophe like a more virulent global pandemic will put us out of our misery sooner, and make sure not to procreate and subject future generations to a life of misery on this earth we have so devastated. Transhumanists hope that we might develop artificial intelligence technology smarter than us (another spiritual rant I am saving for another post), or maybe we can figure out how to colonize Mars. But to colonize Mars, we would need man-made technology to supply our own oxygen, grow food further from the sun and protect ourselves from the much colder climate, and after the recent tragedy with the submarine that imploded, should we really entrust the future of humanity to these billionaire "innovators?" And even if we figure out how to colonize Mars with reliable technology, but our greedy human hearts have not changed, wouldn't we ultimately figure out how to exploit Mars to the point that it also becomes uninhabitable? Transhumanists are like the person who acknowledges their problematic habits, but believes one day there will be a magic pill. Most of us in the West are like the person that knows we need to change, knows there will be no magic pill, at least not one without unintended consequences, but the details of exactly how to change our habits feel so daunting that we are always saying, "I will do better tomorrow," as we give ourselves a giant scoop of frozen chocolate custard with hot fudge on top.

My eating habits still aren't perfect. Like many Americans, I got complacent with my portion sizes during the pandemic when I was home all the time, bored and anxious about what the future held. But the journey of changing the way I eat has been a sort of spiritual experience that has given me insights that I believe are relevant to the climate change discussion as well.

When I took the course on the book of Genesis my first semester at Trinity, the final paper required students to identify one mission God sets out for humans in the book of Genesis, and trace it through the Bible. I chose Creation care. While reflecting on this subject filled me with passion, I was a bit overwhelmed by this assignment, the most demanding assignment I had done since my undergraduate capstone at Carroll University in 2012, and my brain was just barely recovering from the atrophy caused by working in the corporate world, so the research process exhausted me. The final week of the semester, my parents and I also had to make the difficult decision to put my sweet guide dog and companion for 12 years, Gilbert to sleep. He had been slowing down for a couple of years, so I had accepted that it was time to say goodbye, but after the procedure, I still had difficulty concentrating. It had also been so long since I had to cite scholarly sources and use footnotes that this process overwhelmed me as well. I felt inspired to open the paper with the first few lines of Colors of the Wind, a song from Pocahontas, but could not find any examples of how to cite songs in Trinity's library resources, so I know this was cited incorrectly. But I managed to submit my paper in the nick of time, and to my amazement, earned a 97%. I believe this professor showed grace and mercy, giving me a much higher grade than I deserved, but I think he could sense my passion, and he gave me excellent feedback on how to make my argument more compelling. He also recommended that I read Stewards of Eden by Sandra Richter, a seminary professor from Kentucky passionate about convincing Christians that Creation care is a biblical mandate. Since then, I got sidetracked by life, but finally at the end of last month, I read this book and it was excellent. In my paper, I directed most of my blame for Christian apathy toward the climate crisis to the bad influence of prosperity theologians who conflate material wealth with God's blessing. The professor pointed out that while it is certainly true that the prosperity gospel has had a terrible influence on Christianity, it is a straw man argument because there are a lot of Christians who reject this theology and yet don't recognize that Creation care is a biblical mandate. After reading this book, I finally understand what he was getting at. For example, most Christians are no different than most Americans in that we give little thought to the milk, eggs and meat we put into our grocery cart. We are merely the invisible consumer, looking for the best product at the lowest price. It is the seller's responsibility to worry about where the product originated and how it was produced. Personally, I avoid beef and pork because red meat (at least red meat tender enough to be tolerated by the rest of the family) is very fattening, sits like a cement block in the stomach, and has almost no nutritional value. The fact that cows produce a lot of methane is a bonus reason not to eat it. Chicken and turkey make up the bulk of my meat consumption with fish once or twice a week, and eggs for breakfast twice a week. Long before reading this book, I was aware of the inhumane conditions of factory farms that produce pretty much all of the chicken, turkey and eggs Americans eat, that I eat for enjoyment, and because it is necessary to consume animal products to obtain vitamin B12 naturally. But I am embarrassed to say the suffering of these animals really didn't break my heart: in fact I barely even thought about it. I suppose I viewed it as a necessary evil to provide enough food for the population. Besides, God permitted us to eat meat, and the Bible doesn't say much about the treatment of livestock. But Sandra Richter opened my eyes to the fact that actually, God has a lot to say, especially in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, about the treatment of livestock. Of course, factory farms were not an issue back in biblical times. In fact, the ancient Israelites would have been subsistence farmers, who barely grew enough to survive. Even so, God mandated that livestock be treated with dignity. The Israelites were commanded for example, to not muzzle their oxen while they worked, so that the oxen could enjoy some of the grain while threshing, even though every grain of wheat would have been precious to the Israelites. When animals were slaughtered, they had to be taken before the priest, to ensure that the animal's life had been considered. Slaughter was never to be done casually or thoughtlessly, and God required the manner of death to be as merciful as possible. Given the principles behind these laws, it is safe to assume that God is not pleased by the practices of factory farming. And these practices are not only cruel to the domestic animals and the bodies of water (which have been polluted by the disposal of their manure) in the orchestra of creation. They have been harmful to the harmony of the choir as well. Food borne illnesses are often traced back to these factory farms, and they have monopolized the production of food to such a degree that the family farm where livestock are treated humanely and raised in the natural, healthy manner God intended, is no longer economically viable, a reality that has been devastating to rural communities.

I am reluctant to make any changes in where we buy meat during these hot summer months, but after reading this book, I feel compelled to look into joining a farm co-op that delivers meat directly from family farms. I had an extremely liberal, Atheist English professor in college who talked about how her family did this, but now I realize this is a practice that should not be stereo-typed as liberal. Conservative Christians should embrace it too. Will this mean that our meat costs more? Of course, and as a result, we will have to either eat fewer meals with meat or figure out how to stretch it. The practice of factory farming has allowed us to eat more meat, more cheaply than ever before in human history, and has given the developing world greater access to meat as well. But this has come at a devastating cost to our physical health in the West, and the health of God's Creation. But this doesn't mean curtailing all culinary pleasure, just redefining it. I have come to find--and this is the truth--that I feel more light and satisfied after a stir fry of cauliflower rice and vegetables with little bits of chicken for flavor, or my mom's cabbage soup with little bits of ground turkey in a wonderful blend of cabbage, spices and tomato sauce, than after a dinner that consists of the standard American hunk of meat.

Genetically modified crops, especially wheat, have also been devastating to the land, and to human health. In fact, my childhood consumption of massive amounts of this wheat is probably the reason I have Celiac disease. It is too late for me this side of Heaven, but if you don't have Celiac disease, I urge you to pay more for the hippy-stereotype breads that are made from the natural wheat our great-grandparents ate. It may mean fewer servings of bread in your diet, but your body and the Earth will thank you, and when Christ returns to redeem all Creation, I look forward to eating warm, fresh-baked bread again.

Finally, I agree that God does want us to prosper, but his idea of prosperity is completely at odds with the material prosperity championed by prosperity theology, a dangerous marriage of American capitalism with God's supposed blessing. I think we need to recognize that some of our customs that bring us pleasure in this world are just so hedonistic and over-the-top that they need to be abandoned. One of my favorite treats, and one that can easily be adapted to be gluten free, was a warm, fudgy, chocolate brownie in a bowl with a heaping scoop of chocolate ice cream on top. Just writing about it makes me hungry. But after eating this decadent dessert, my stomach felt heavy and sometimes I would even feel a little sweaty or shaky, so it did a terrible number on my blood sugar. Some will say, "oh come on. You're allowed to have a treat now and then." But the thing is, I don't think God ever intended for us to eat the processed sugar that is so ubiquitous in our society, even as a treat. Processed sugar is a product that companies intentionally designed to be addictive, to keep you coming back for more to maximize profit. For our great-grandparents, a treat was the summer harvest of fresh strawberries, or the apples in Fall. We need to respect the temple of our bodies (1 Corinthians 3:16-17) and God's Creation by returning to this mindset. While I believe I will get to enjoy bread again, a food that was once a natural, healthy food that can be traced back to Bible times, I believe that even after our resurrection, I will not be eating warm chocolate brownies with ice cream on top, and won't even want one. Such a craving is merely a sinful desire of my heart in this world, a decadence unimaginable and unavailable for most of human history. But this gluttony is also found in our culture's insistence on a new phone every year, a new car every three years on average, and especially the fast-fashion industry, which I knew exploited women and children in third-world countries whom our culture unfortunately views as less valuable members of the choir. But I did not realize until watching an expose recently--I think it was on 60 Minutes--that fast fashion has also devastated the environment. Did you know for example that every year for big events like the Superbowl, millions of shirts are produced in advance of the event proclaiming both possible outcomes. After the game, the victory shirts for the team that ended up losing are sent overseas, supposedly to help the poor, but it is more than these countries can handle, so these clothes often end up in landfills. So we basically inundate third-world countries with our trash, our rejects, just to make sure that merchandise is available instantly after the game. I was astonished and appalled to learn this. I think we really could handle waiting a few days or even weeks for merchandise so that companies only need to produce one set of shirts, or better yet, we could just remember the game in our hearts and save all those resources for something more useful. As for the purchase of new phones or cars, this cannot entirely be blamed on vain consumers who crave novelty. I love using phones and computers until they are so old that most apps aren't supported by their operating systems anymore, but eventually the inability to access necessary apps for work and school force people like me to buy a new device, playing right into the hand of big tech companies who are more interested in the short-term profit generated by a new product than environmental sustainability.

During the 1920's, my paternal grandpa's parents owned a motel and restaurant. When the business was sold in the 1950s, Grandma and Grandpa inherited some of the equipment, including a smash toaster that made the most amazing toast that I always looked forward to when visiting Grandma and Grandpa in the 1990s, and 2000's. Grandma isn't really able to cook anymore, and I don't eat toast anymore so I don't know what became of it, but the point of it is, it was still cooking perfect toast at more than eighty years old, whereas now, it seems like you are lucky if a toaster lasts more than a year, and a phone or computer is considered old if it is more than five years old. I think we as a culture, especially Christians, should demand products be made to last like Grandma's smash toaster. There is no reason why the chunk of metal that is my phone should have to be replaced every five years when the hardware is still in perfect condition. If the brainpower exists to create the coding for new operating systems, I would think relatively little brainpower by comparison would be necessary to install necessary upgrades on existing hardware so that we can keep and use only one chunk of metal for eighty years. This would make customers like me happy, and would also better ensure the long-term sustainability of their business since the metals required for these phones are a nonrenewable resource that may eventually run out.

Climate change is a complex situation and addressing it will require change on multiple levels. I know I haven't exhaustively addressed all of the changes we may need to make. As inspiration strikes, I imagine I will be writing more on this subject. I also acknowledge the importance of humility because although I have boasted of my intention to start buying meat that supports the family farm, and my stubborn refusal to buy a new phone until I am forced to, my environmental stewardship is far from perfect. A couple years ago, Frontline did an expose of the plastic industry, which claims their products can be recycled but practically speaking many of them cannot. To illustrate this, a reporter walked through the grocery store and pointed out all of the plastic packaging on the shelves. I don't think audio description was available for this show so I couldn't see everything, but she specifically mentioned boxed lettuce, which I eat pretty much every day unless fresh romaine heads are available. The 10-ounce boxes typically last me two days, and the 16-ounce boxes around three days. So while my habit of eating big salads at lunchtime is extremely healthy for my physical body, I contribute two to three single-use plastic salad boxes to the landfill each week. But at this point I do not know how to change this short of giving up salad because we do not live in a climate conducive to growing our own steady supply of really any vegetables, including salad. I also recognize there may come a day when I may have to make more substantial sacrifices, like perhaps live, for a few hours each day at least, without air conditioning as running air conditioners puts tremendous strain on electrical grids. And if that day comes, I am sure that in my fallen state, I will forget all about Christian ideals and complain bitterly about it. While my mom grew up without air conditioning and doesn't seem as bothered by the stifling heat and humidity that takes over when the air conditioner goes out, the few occasions I have had to go without it, like when we had a four day power outage following a storm two summers ago, I am absolutely miserable. Once we are accustomed to luxuries, it is difficult to give them up. But part of this misery could be that our house doesn't have great air circulation, but we aren't planning to stay here forever. Maybe for our next house, we should look for one within walking distance to a public pool or clean lake to swim hot summer afternoons away just like Mom did growing up.

God is gracious and merciful, and understands that we live in a fallen world where much is out of our control. But as Christians, I believe we have the duty to be receptive to the Holy Spirit and open to new ideas of how He may be calling us to live more sustainably. Most importantly, we as Christians should be the ones taking the lead, lovingly sharing God's wisdom with our culture, working toward getting the choir closer to the harmony God intended.

The Secret Garden, the children's classic written by Frances Hodgson Burnett does not have an overt Christian message. Yet when I reread this book as an adult and observed how Dickon lived in perfect harmony with nature, putting wild animals at ease to such an extent that they followed him around, even rode on his shoulder, the way he helped transform Mary and Colin from spoiled, sad, lonely kids to joyful children who loved the great outdoors, it occurred to me, this is what paradise might look like. But as Christians, we don't have to wait until then to start working toward this vision. What if we acted like Dickon, gently, lovingly showing a contrary world how to "run the hidden pine trails of the forest, taste the sun sweet berries of the earth, roll in all the riches all around us, and for once, never wonder what they're worth" (Pocahontas). What if we lived as if the rainstorm and the river, and the land and the air are our brothers, as if the heron and the otter and the sandhill crane and the black-capped chickadee, and I suppose even the mosquitoes and bees, are our friends? Changes in lifestyle are never easy in this fallen world, and like I said, there are still days when I crave that decadent brownie with ice cream on top. But the long-term joy of feeling lighter and healthier has been worth the sacrifice, just as I believe the long-term prospect of singing in harmony with one another and the orchestra of Creation again ought to thrill us far more than all of the material wealth of this world.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theriversoflife.substack.com

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Well readers, I have two happier posts in the works, one of which is about how much I love my kitten Aslan whom I introduced in my last post. But given that my kitten and dog enjoy a higher standard of living than our government is providing children seeking asylum at our borders right now, I feel compelled to write about how much our country still falls short of the ideas expressed in our Declaration of Independence which we recently celebrated. I should say here it is not my intention to completely trash-talk our country because despite all the problems we are facing right now, we are still far better off than many countries around the world. On July 3, I was watching Morning Joe on MSNBC as I ate breakfast before work, and in light of the horrible conditions at the border detention centers, and Donald Trump's politicizing of what has always been a nonpartisan holiday with his military display and planned speech, one of the commentators suggested that Americans should go ahead and enjoy the holiday and say a toast to the things we do well, but on the 5th of July, we should reflect on what we could do to make this country better, and align it more closely with our ideals by next year.

I liked this sentiment, and I still believe there are many things we do well. For example, we all have the freedom to practice our religion or have no religion at all. Sure, there has been a disturbing increase in antisemitism, and misinformed fears of people who practice Islam, the majority of whom are peaceful. But when gunmen attacked two synagogues this past year, their communities, including the mayors rallied around them and denounced the perpetrators of such senseless violence toward a house of worship, which completely violate the values of our free society. I have confidence that the same would hold true if a mosque were attacked. Sadly, this is not true in many other countries. Every year at HarvestFest, an annual event my church holds in October where field workers come home and share stories of how they are spreading the gospel around the world, I hear heartbreaking stories of churches being bombed or burned down, and worshippers being arrested or killed. Sometimes this persecution is inflicted directly by the government, other times by non-state actors who are not prosecuted because the government implicitly supports what they are doing. Either way, you come away from this event each year with a renewed appreciation for how lucky we are to live in this country where religious freedom is still upheld. Another value we still uphold well is freedom of speech. Sure, there are those who try to silence speech they don't like, often using incredibly hateful rhetoric on social media, and people have lost jobs over speech a company or sponsor doesn't like. But the bottom line is, I can confidently publish this blog post in which I will be saying bad things about the president, knowing it won't lead to police storming into my house and hauling me off to a jail or prison camp where I could be tortured or killed. The same cannot be said in many other countries.

On the morning of July 4, while Mom made final preparations for a holiday feast that afternoon, we listened to Stay Tuned with Preet, a podcast my mom and I both like and which I also talk about in this post. Before the show, Preet asked his social media followers the question `What does patriotism mean to you?" At the end of the show, he shared a sample of responses. I was a little troubled by how some listeners seemed to believe patriotism is about blind loyalty to country, right or wrong. But several people indicated that patriotism means loving your country enough to criticize what we get wrong, so that we can be better. Related to that, I especially liked the sentiment of one woman who compared patriotism to the unconditional love a parent has for his/her child. I think this is a brilliant analogy that I also agree with. I think I was expressing this kind of love in this post when I indicated that at least as circumstances currently stand, I don't feel compelled to flee to Canada. In the same way a loving parent wouldn't abandon his/her child when he makes a big mistake or doesn't live up to expectations, I cannot imagine abandoning this country. At the same time, the parent who almost worships his/her child, insisting the child can do no wrong, and trying to shield him from any consequences or hardships related to poor choices is actually making said child's life more difficult in the long-term.

Given the 24-hour news cycle which can have the effect of desensitizing people to all the trouble in the world, and my job where I talk to people every day living with painful medical conditions, many of whom cannot afford the medical care they need, I admit there are days when I can relate to a psychological phenomenon experienced by people in emotionally draining occupations like paramedics and nurses known as compassion fatigue. But last summer when I heard footage of children crying for their mothers when they were separated by border patrol officers, I almost cried too. And what was almost equally horrifying to me was the callous attitude of commentators like Laura Ingram who downplayed the cruelty of this policy by likening the child detention centers to summer camp.

I went to a week-long summer camp for three summers as a child, and there is no comparison between my experience, and what separated children are still enduring. Sure, I was separated from my parents, but it was a separation my parents and I both consented to, with plenty of time for my parents to soothe my fears about homesickness by reminding me of all the fun, unique experiences I would have. By contrast, mothers interviewed about their situation last summer indicated they didn't know they would be separated from their children when they arrived, which means they wouldn't have even had the opportunity to soothe their children or explain the situation to them before being separated. When I got to camp, it was a week full of fun, unique experiences like swimming in a lake, boating, playing silly games in the dining hall and singing songs around a campfire. By contrast, children separated from their parents were taken to detention centers where their entire summer was spent essentially locked in cages. Last summer, these centers at least provided basic education, but this summer, children aren't even getting that. Finally, I knew exactly when my parents were coming to take me home, so when there were a couple moments when I was starting to feel homesick, I could console myself with the assurance that I would be home soon. By contrast, neither the children nor the parents knew if, or when they would be reunited. Many parents wait months to be reunited with their children, and 471 parents have been deported without their children.

I didn't take any action to speak out against our country's cruelty toward immigrants seeking asylum last summer, or even write about it on this blog because I think I was just so shocked by this atrocity I didn't know what I could do or how to approach the issue. But this summer, with many children who still have not been reunited with their families, and with children and families being denied toiletries and basic medical care, I cannot stay silent any longer. I still feel fortunate to live in this country and am optimistic that we can get onto a better path. I am not the only American appalled at how our government is treating asylum-seekers, so if the thousands of protestors featured in the news shouting `close the camps!" stay engaged in this cause and vote in leaders at all levels of government with integrity and good character, this, and many other situations we are facing could change for the better. But as immigration policy currently stands, this country is like a child that needs to sit in time-out or lose some privileges. Actually, the natural consequence of President Trump's behavior, and withdrawal from international agreements like the Paris Climate Accord, our allies are already putting us in time-out so to speak by making decisions without our input, and thus we are losing the privilege of leadership in the world. I hate to see our country lose respect and influence on the world stage, but until we wake up and elect leaders with good character, and until some who call themselves Christians actually return to upholding Christian values, this natural consequence is well-deserved.

I have thoughts on several issues, but given that these issues are complex, I will save them for posts of their own. For this post, I want to focus on President Trump's immigration policy because it has disturbed my conscience, and is a leading story in the news right now.

Of course, President Trump is not the first president to have to address immigration and border security. But recent past presidents sought to address this issue with thoughtfulness, striving to recognize the need for border security and law enforcement while not forsaking our values. We are after all, a nation built by immigrants, and most of us are descendants of immigrants. On my dad's side, I know that my grandma's parents both emigrated from Poland in the early 1900s. Grandma's mother fled from an abusive father, and Grandma's father fled to avoid being drafted into the army during World War I. My mom's side has been in this country longer, but they came to this country in the 1600s, seeking asylum from an oppressive Scottish government.

President Obama actually built the first detention centers and deported more people than President Trump has thus far. But children were never separated from their parents, and all immigrants were treated with basic human dignity while inside our borders, even if they were ultimately deported. President Obama also issued an executive order protecting undocumented children brought to this country illegally by their parents, recognizing that as children, they had no say in this decision, and they were good people who had now become part of the fabric of their communities and our society. In fact, many of these children were so young when brought to this country that they had no memory of their native countries, so America was the only country they had ever known. I remember both President George W Bush and President Obama giving speeches advocating a legal path to citizenship for undocumented immigrants, although neither were successful in convincing Congress to pass such legislation. By contrast, President Trump's position on immigration is centered on racism and hate, from his cruel zero-tolerance policy that separated children from their families, to his past racist rhetoric about shithole countries, to his tweets just last week attacking "the squad," the four Democratic congresswomen of color who spoke out against him, and his sitting back and smiling as supporters chanted "send her back!" in reference to Ilhan Omar one of the women in the squad who was not born in this country but is a legal U.S. citizen, at a rally in North Carolina.

Even if you do not identify as a Christian, there are so many reasons why President Trump's policies and rhetoric are wrong and detrimental to our country's interests. There is the fact that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission specifically cites remarks like "go back to where you came from" as an example of unlawful workplace harassment. Where I work, if management got wind of someone making such a remark, they would be fired on the spot, but the President of the United States has not, and most likely will not face any consequences for this remark. There is the fact that President Trump's treatment of asylum-seekers is a violation of national law, and international treaties. There is the staggering waste of tax dollars being paid to for-profit detention contractors to house immigrants when I heard an immigration advocate interviewed on a podcast last year argue that when immigrants were released into this country to live with other family members, 99 percent of them still showed up for their court hearings. And while another blog post could be written on the immorality of exploiting immigrants, the reality of this fallen world is that immigrants are willing to do crucial work that American citizens won't do because this work is hard, pay is low and there are no benefits, jobs such as meat packing, harvesting crops, even providing nursing care for the increasing senior population. Deporting hard-working, undocumented immigrants whose only crime was entering this country illegally or advocating policies that only welcome highly educated immigrants could lead to labor shortages in crucial sectors of our economy down the road. And can you imagine how blah life would be without the wonderful variety of ethnic foods, music and traditions that immigrants brought to this country? This diversity is really what made America great, and the only way we can continue to be great. But those of us who identify as Christians should be especially horrified by President Trump's immigration policies for a higher set of reasons.

As I have mentioned in the past, I studied for a time with a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses. I didn't end up converting because I don't agree with their theology surrounding Jesus. But I still consider these witnesses good friends, and I wish more of my fellow evangelical Christians would have an open mind and study with them because although I believe their theology is incorrect, there is so much that they get right as far as what it means to take faith seriously. And there are two things that both of our bibles agree on: one cannot serve two masters, and we are called to be citizens of a higher governing authority.

Jehovah's Witnesses take these principles so seriously that they do not run for political office, serve in the military or even vote. The way one of my friends explained it, all earthly governments are influenced by Satan, but Jehovah's Witnesses need to be a unified front as God's government is higher than any of the earthly governments in place right now, and so by abstaining from voting or any civic activities, there is no animosity if a Jehovah's Witness living in the United States meets a Witness from Iran, even though there is tension between the earthly governments of these countries. I am not arguing that my fellow Evangelicals abstain from voting. On the contrary, I believe that Christians should vote and contact their representatives to speak up for the issues God puts on their hearts because while it is true that this world will always have problems until Christ returns, He wants us to work with this system in our spheres of influence (which include the governments of the countries in which we live) to try and bring a taste of His Kingdom to this world now rather than just throwing up our hands and hoping He will return soon. But it is sad and honestly frightening to me how many of my fellow Evangelicals have fallen victim to pandering and propaganda, and have chosen to blindly follow and almost worship President Trump and his enablers in Congress. I hope any Evangelicals who stumble on this blog don't take what I am about to say as judgmental. This is not my intention, as only God knows what is in each person's heart, and I know I have plenty of my own sins to work out that I will be judged on. As a quick relevant example, although this post has been about the need for more compassionate immigration policies, my heart isn't always pure regarding my attitude toward immigrants. I have never made blatant racist remarks against them, have never and would never dream of telling someone to go back to the country they came from, but sometimes in real-world situations, I react with impatience and annoyance rather than patience and compassion. As I have mentioned in the past, I groan to myself when I go to a restaurant and end up with a waiter or waitress who is not fluent in English, especially if I am on a family vacation, when sometimes I haven't had enough sleep and am beyond hungry by the time we get to a restaurant. Although I have never actually vocalized this, in my mind I am fuming, "oh for heaven's sake, give me someone who speaks English!" Normally at the sound of a foreign accent, I would smile in celebration of the diversity and opportunity our country offers, appreciate how brave this waiter or waitress is for starting over in a new country and learning our language better than I would ever learn theirs if I had to start over in their country, but sometimes in the heat of the moment, I am just tired and hungry and don't have the patience to even try and communicate with them, so I put my head down hoping the waiter will just assume I have a headache or something, and let my parents do the talking and explain to them about my Celiac Disease. But even if my anxiety over the need to make sure it is understood that my meal needs to be gluten free is legitimate, I should make a better effort about not fixating on my food, trust God because everything always ultimately works out, and engage in conversation with said waiter or waitress, showing them the same mercy and compassion I would want to be shown if I had to start over in a new country. But even though I fall short in my interaction with immigrants, I feel compelled to speak the truth in love, which is that it is just not possible to honestly call yourself a Christian, while simultaneously supporting President Trump's policies, especially his immigration policies. And even before I read this excellent article linked to above, I have felt for a long time that if Christ were to return today, He would judge purported Christians who support President Trump with the same anger He expressed to the Pharisees and Sadducees. To support President Trump while calling yourself Christian is to be a hypocrite.

This is not about politics. I am not saying you should necessarily vote for President Trump's democratic opponent, although right now I think that is what I personally am going to do. I am well aware that Democrats have had their fair share of crooked behavior, immoral conduct and hyperpartisanship, but President Trump's policies, especially his immigration policy, not to mention his complete lack of morals or integrity are so egregious that getting him voted out of office in 2020 needs to be the top priority. But if Evangelicals cannot in good conscience vote for President Trump's opponent, I feel as though they would honor God better by following the example of Jehovah's Witnesses and at least for this election, not voting at all. I just ask my fellow evangelicals to consider this question. Since we are all sinners, we will never find perfect leaders in this current world, but who do you think Jesus would judge more favorably if He returned today: the political figures who may not talk about their faith publicly but who in general advocate Christ-like policies that lift up the poor and marginalized, or the political figures who loudly profess their faith and pander to you by promising to appoint pro-life judges to the Supreme court, but who in general have implemented policies that make life worse for the poor and marginalized, and who will even twist scripture out of context to justify cruel policies as Jeff Sessions did last summer?

Some of my fellow evangelicals will say there is spiritual warfare today, and the Enemy Satan is doing everything he can to turn people away from God, but sadly some of these same people are completely oblivious to the fact that the Enemy has already turned them away from God using Fox News propaganda, and conservative talk radio. So I would like to conclude with a few bible verses that I hope will tickle the conscience of even one person who stumbles on this blog, and bring them back to God.

Hebrews 13:1-2 says: "Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing, some people have entertained angels without knowing it." It just so happens that our church was studying the book of Hebrews this summer, and in God's perfect timing, the pastor preached on these verses three weeks ago, right as the conditions in the detention centers were coming to light. I think my fellow evangelicals don't realize that a large portion of the immigrants from the central American countries are themselves Christians, so by turning our backs on them, we are actually turning our backs on our own brothers and sisters. Furthermore, we were all at one time aliens whom God pursued, and therefore we are called to embrace and show hospitality to strangers, whether they are Christian or not. It is the best way the church can articulate the gospel to the broader culture, and this message is if anything more relevant today given our culture's stranger danger philosophy, than it was when the book of Hebrews was written.

Matthew 25:34-35 says: "Then the king will say to those on his right, Come, you who are blessed by my father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in." Jesus goes on to tell those on his left who did not do these things they will not inherit the kingdom. Jesus, who was Himself a refugee, includes our treatment of the stranger, the immigrant in this world as criteria for whether we inherit eternal life. This should be sobering. I confess I was tempted not to include this verse for fear of being a hypocrite as I fall far short of these standards. I am not as generous with my money as I could be, and very stingy with my time. This is an area of my faith life where I would like to progress. But even if you are like me and rarely volunteer or donate to charity, we could all start by at least speaking out against elected representatives who pander to Christians but implement cruel policies that are completely at odds with Jesus' teaching.

Matthew 24:14 says: "And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come." Jesus didn't say He only came for the people of the roman empire who was his audience, nor did He say He came only for white people, or only people living in the United States of America. He wanted the gospel to be preached to all nations. I get the impression from this bible verse, and bible verses about Jesus abolishing all earthly governments, that He will have an open borders policy, if borders as we know them even exist at all. At that time, we will all realize how stupid and petty our thousands of years of racism were as we were all created in God's image, with the same hopes and dreams. But why must we wait until then? Why not strive to bring a taste of God's kingdom to this country now with policies that secure the border against real criminals, which is necessary in this fallen world, but policies which are grounded in common sense and compassion, not hate and racism.

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During the 1970s, my dad worked as a dispatcher for a trucking company in Michigan. In 1981, the company suspended operation of the Michigan terminal, but offered him a job in Wisconsin. So the family, which at that time only meant Mom, Dad and my oldest brother who was a baby, moved to Wisconsin. Life got very hectic as three more children were born, the last of which was me in 1990. But in 1998, while visiting Grandma and Grandpa nearby in Michigan City, Indiana, my parents thought it would be fun to drive through their old haunts in Benton Harbor, Michigan and see what became of the terminal where Dad used to work. To their shock, it had been abandoned, and this neglect meant that nature reclaimed it. Untamed weeds climbed the walls of the building, enveloping it. I have a general memory of being in the back seat of the car during this driving tour, but I don't remember this moment when they saw the building. As a blind kid who couldn't look out the window like the rest of the family, and as an eight-year-old who probably wouldn't have found the sight very interesting even if I could, I must have fallen asleep or tuned the tour out. But years later when the subject came up somehow and Mom described to me what happened to this building, the fascinating thought occurred to me that this building was a micro illustration of what would happen to the whole earth if humanity were wiped out. Nature doesn't need us. It would reclaim what we bulldozed, take over the buildings we built. It was here before we were created, and will thrive long after we are gone, or perhaps more accurately, long after we destroy ourselves. Of course, now I believe God won't let us completely destroy ourselves, but I wasn't yet a fully committed Christian with a confident faith in God's glorious plan for Creation when Mom told me about this building.

As I have written about before, I am not a fan of the dog days of summer when most days are hot, humid and buggy and there is constant social pressure to go out in it. But I love those first warm days of Spring, when most of the bugs are still dormant, but the temperature is perfect, even in the sun, and the joyful songs of the birds, and the fragrant fresh air that breezes through open windows beckons me outdoors. In recent years, as I depart the stuffy house into the sun and fresh air without needing to protect myself from the elements with a coat, hat and scarf, I find myself singing a modern Christian pop song that we often sing in church: "You called my name, and I ran out of that grave! Out of the darkness into Your glorious day!" It is also the time of year when it feels like old friends have returned. My mom loves to mark on the calendar when she sees the first robins in our yard, and Dad will stop what he is doing to holler excitedly to Mom to come look, there's a deer or a fox! I look forward to hearing the complex melodic song of the black-capped chickadee, and will stop what I am reading on the swing and attempt to mimic its song by whistling to him to see if I might draw him closer. And we all adore the sandhill cranes, who prefer our yard over the yards of the neighbors because we don't treat our lawn with pesticides, so the ground is full of yummy worms to eat. My parents say they are beautiful, tall birds and when they start talking, you would think we lived in the jungle it is so majestic. Mom thought these elegant birds deserved sophisticated British names. So the first generation we named Nigel and Penelope. The following year, Nigel and Penelope had two babies we named Albert and Beatrice. This generation is named Victoria and Oliver. Once they are adults, Mom said you cannot tell them apart, but it is still fun to name them. This year we put up a bird house a neighbor made for us, and my parents thought it would be fun to buy two bird feeders to entertain our cat Aslan when he looks out the window, but they have ended up entertaining us even more. Now we have a new friend, a house wren that chose the bird house our neighbor made for her nest. When Mom noticed one of my friends, a black-capped chickadee, destroying the house wren's nest, I was a little sad that a bird with such a sweet song could be so mean, but the wild is cruel sometimes, so I talked Mom out of throwing a rock at him. But it ended up working out for all of us because our house wren is a resilient little bird who fought the black-capped chickadee off and rebuilt the nest in no time. (Since our bird clock died five years ago, my ability to identify birds by their song has gotten rusty, but a couple weeks ago, I found a very accessible app for my phone, Merlin BirdId and am relearning my birds. My dad also downloaded a bird identification app on his phone and now we all love to identify the birds we hear while reading outside or eating breakfast at our table in front of the window.)

And this time of year, as night falls, the perfect unity and harmony of thousands of frogs singing their mating calls rival the most beautiful choir. As a Christian I believe it was no coincidence that Jesus's resurrection occurred in Spring. After all, it is a season of joy and new life for all creation. But conversely, this time of year when all creation literally sings, it is difficult to not be even more acutely sad about the degree to which humanity in our fallen state has exploited and trashed this beautiful creation and the warped responses of Christians and the secular world alike to this tragedy.

Especially since the modern, industrial age and its accompanying mindset of conquering nature, humans have seen themselves as separate from creation. When I was in college, I took a course on the Religious Traditions of America, and one of the assigned books was God Is Red, a book written by Vine Deloria, Jr., a native American philosopher. While I didn't agree with every argument he made, one thing he said still resonates with me. While native American worship is conducted outdoors and centers on reverence for the earth, Christians separate themselves from creation, worshipping indoors in man-made churches. This point became even more striking as I became more intimately familiar with the Bible and how many of the narratives in both the Old and New Testament take place outdoors. Genesis opens with Adam and Eve whom God created from the dust of the ground, in a beautiful garden. God reveals himself to the Israelites in the wilderness between Egypt and the Promise Land. Many of Jesus's parables draw inspiration from elements of the natural world, and the book of Revelation states that when Jesus returns to redeem all things, we will once again dwell in a beautiful garden. As I mentioned in my previous post, the Teacher in the book of Ecclesiastes affirms that we are made of the same biological stuff as animals. And yet, the Catholic church I was raised in held mass outdoors only once a year, in conjunction with the annual church festival, and the Protestant church I attend now baptizes people in a pond one Sunday afternoon a year in July, but all other services are held indoors. Not only that but as Christopher Wright points out in his book The Mission of God's People, which was assigned in the course on the book of Genesis I took my first semester at Trinity, on Mission Sundays, only missionaries engaged in the salvation of humans are recognized, despite the fact that the Bible is full of evidence of God's love for all of creation, not just humans. While the salvation of humans is certainly important, for mission to be truly holistic, it must also address our responsibility to be good stewards of all the natural resources God created, and thus Wright argues that Christians who feel called to advocate for the environment or protect endangered species should be granted the same legitimacy by churches as those called to the salvation of humans. The most tragic, extreme end of the Christian separation from nature is the prosperity gospel, which views the prosperity God wants for us in the shallow sense of material wealth, and when Christ returns, he is going to create a new heaven and a new earth, so what does it matter if we exploit the earth now? Agenda 21, a dystopian novel co-authored by ultra-conservatives Glenn Beck and Harriet Parke and inspired by a U.N. resolution by the same name, imagines a future of authoritarian government in the name of environmental restoration. Babies are taken away from their parents at birth to be indoctrinated in state institutions, and people are forcibly uprooted from their former lives and sent to concrete compounds in planned communities where food (nourishment cubes) and energy are strictly rationed, and people incapable of procreating, and creating clean energy for the Republic by walking their energy board each day are of no use to society.

But the secular response to human exploitation of creation is just as alarming. For years, I have seen articles indicating that a growing number of young people, especially in Generation Z are saying they do not plan to have children, not because of economic uncertainty, but because they believe it is immoral to bring children into a world whose resources are already strained by too many people, and because these children would suffer the full effects of climate change: famine, drought, extreme weather, wildfires. But even more alarming to me is a small but according to Adam Kirsch, growing movement of people embracing the idea of human extinction. After listening to this book review of his book The Revolt Against Humanity, I was filled with such morbid fascination that I couldn't resist listening to his entire book on Audible. This book is an overview of antihumanism and transhumanism, and the broad argument it makes is that while antihumanists and transhumanists have radically different views on what a posthuman world might look like, they agree on two central ideas: that the end of humanity as we know it is inevitable, and that we should welcome it as a sentence we deserve given the devastation we have caused, from the trash at the bottom of the ocean, to the hole in the ozone layer. Kirsch even calls into question the Bible's assertion that the flourishing of humanity is good. "The bible gives the negative commandment thou shall not kill, as well as the positive commandment be fruitful and multiply, and traditionally they have gone together. But if being fruitful and multiplying starts to be seen itself as a form of killing since it deprives future generations and other species of irreplaceable resources, then the flourishing of humanity can no longer be seen as simply good" (Page 20). But Kirsch also questions even the optimistic view that while creation may not need us, we can enrich it, in the sense that without us, creation would march on, but it would be pointless, akin to performing a show without an audience. Kirsch quotes David Benatar, a South African thinker who calls this optimistic view "metaphysical arrogance." "What is so special about a world which contains moral agents and rational deliberators?" Benatar jeers, "that humans value a world that contains beings such as themselves says more about their inappropriate sense of self-importance than it does about the world" (Page 49). Since I have life experience as both a performer and audience member for many shows, I thought it would be fun to run with this second analogy for awhile.

Chuck Berry is best known for his contribution to rock 'n roll music with songs like Johnny B Good, but one day during that dark period of depression and anxiety in 2016, Dad was driving me home from work when Sirius Xm played a lesser known and not entirely family friendly song, My Ding-a-ling, recorded with a live concert audience singing along. Hopefully my pastor won't find this and think less of me for listening to such filthy music, but it broke through my sadness that day, leaving both Dad and me in a fit of laughter. (I think Dad had heard this song before but part of his laughter came from watching how this song made his innocent Christian daughter laugh.)

The following day it occurred to me that a large part of what made this song so funny was Chuck Berry's interaction with the audience. For example, in between one of the verses, he stopped and singled out two women singing in harmony and said "That's alright, live like you wana live!" But there also exists a studio recording of just him, singing this song solo, and in this context, the song is creepy. This song needs audience interaction for it to be the silly song that I think Chuck Berry intended it to be.

Now for a fun thought experiment, let's pretend that instead of coming to have a good time together and sing a silly song, Chuck Berry's audience that night was a pack of rude, drunken revelers who heckled Chuck Berry, started a riot. In response, security rushed in, kicked everyone out of the arena and called off the show. There may have been a few respectful audience members sitting in their seats, horrified at the behavior of the audience around them, but their numbers were so small, and the atmosphere so chaotic that the show could not go on. Now let's say you and I were among those rude, drunken revelers. Sure, Chuck Berry would have been sad and discouraged that his audience was so disrespectful at the show he intended to bring happiness. But he did not really need our presence at his show. Musicians do not sing primarily for the adoration of an audience but because they are passionate about music. When I sang in the Milwaukee Children's choir, I had the opportunity to travel to Italy with the choir, where we sang for a Saturday evening mass at Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome. During one rehearsal in preparation for this trip, the choir director shared some experiences from a previous trip to Japan, which was before my time in the choir. For some reason, no one showed up for one of the choir's performances in Japan, but they sang anyway to an empty cathedral. But after the show, multiple choir members said this performance was the most meaningful part of the trip. Just having the opportunity to sing in such a beautiful place was special. It didn't matter that no one was there to hear their music. Therefore, Chuck Berry and his band could have kept on playing to an empty arena. It would be too late to book another artist in that arena after all, and tickets for a show like that would be nonrefundable, so he and his band would have still been paid, even if the audience squandered the opportunity to see the show. But the next morning, once we had recovered from our drunken stupor, wouldn't we be filled with a sickening sense of regret that because of our behavior, we forfeited the opportunity of a fun evening singing along with a talented artist? And if we were one of the few respectful audience members, I imagine that as we exited the arena, we would feel a mixture of anger, and sadness, a loss of faith in humanity. Whether you believe in the Christian God or not, I don't think it is "metaphysical arrogance" to say to yourself as you walk through a garden of fragrant flowers, or wake up to the beautiful cacophony of birds singing, "Wow, some grand designer of the universe or wonderful feat of higher evolution brought me into existence to appreciate the beauty of creation on a higher level than other animals! What a privilege, a privilege which children and grandchildren ought to get to enjoy as well!" Of course, all analogies are imperfect and oversimplified, but I believe it is fair to say that although we are already experiencing some of the consequences of climate change, the Grand Designer has been incredibly merciful. Although I disagree with the secular worldview from which antihumanists and transhumanists approach this issue, their premise that we deserve to be thrown out of this beautiful arena called Creation is valid.

But in truth, the analogy of us being audience members to the beautiful show of creation ought to be completely scrapped because it continues to permit humans to think of ourselves as separate from nature. There is an associate pastor at our church who is a huge sports fan, and also serves as chaplain for the Milwaukee Bucks. Occasionally, he will deliver the sermon and although I am not a sports fan, I appreciate his effective use of sports analogies, and as he likes to say, "There are no bench warmers or spectators in God's kingdom." We all have to get out there and play our part.

Even if you do not believe in the Christian God, you cannot escape the reality that we are inextricably intertwined with Creation. Farmers still depend on rain to water crops as piping in water during a drought period can be done in theory but is impractical and expensive, and then depleting water from lakes, rivers and underground water tables would cause other problems. (The region where I live is experiencing a moderate drought right now.) In 2019, the Amazon rainforest made front page news because the corrupt prime minister of Brazil was encouraging vast areas of the rainforest to be burned and cleared for farming. This was not the first time the Amazon rainforest had been threatened, but the scale on which the Prime Minister was allowing the destruction was alarming. When I heard about this, I was disheartened, but absorbed it with the usual emotional distance of a situation a world away that doesn't effect me. But then a climate scientist said that the Amazon rainforest has so many large trees that absorb so much carbon dioxide from the atmosphere that if this rainforest is lost, the air quality all over the world will be impacted! These are just a couple of examples. They show that in reality, we did not, and actually cannot conquer nature. We are, and will always be dependent on nature, and when one part of our delicate ecosystem is threatened, our existence is also threatened.

Since my passion is singing choral music, I propose that we think of all creation, including ourselves, as performers in a beautiful choral work, like say, Handel's Messiah. All creation, which obviously includes all living plants and animals, but even includes nonliving components like the wind, the rivers and oceans, is the orchestra, and we are the choir. In theory, you could perform Handel's Messiah without a choir. The orchestral accompaniment is beautiful in its own right. In fact, before the choir or soloists come in, there is a long and lovely orchestral overture, which reminds me of Genesis chapter 1, when God looked upon everything he had created even before humans and declared that it was good. But the addition of the choir and the lyrics they sing adds a whole new layer of complexity, meaning and beauty that transforms Handel's Messiah from a work that is "good" to one that is "very good."

Now imagine that we were a completely dysfunctional choir. We refused to read our music or follow the leading of the choir director or the orchestra Conductor, choosing to just sing whatever we wanted. If we were assigned to sing in the soprano section, we look with disdain upon the softer, and thus in our mind less valuable altos, tenors and basses, and strive to intimidate them into not singing, or at least to overpower them. All sections of the choir view the orchestra as less valuable because it has no voice, and we all seek to overpower it. Maybe some of us are enamored by the percussion section, but instead of appreciating the subtle but spectacular color these instruments and the skilled musicians behind them add to the orchestra, we greedily grab their instruments away from them and have a blast banging on them with complete disrespect, even breaking some of them. A few singers truly want to appreciate the beauty of the music and their part in it, and do their best to tune out the chaos around them and follow the Conductor and the choir director. But it is not easy, and given the extent of the chaos, even they will inevitably be a little out of tune, and out of sync with the Conductor. The choir director and Conductor are heartbroken that a piece that should have been so beautiful went so completely awry. Of course, this analogy too could be criticized as oversimplified, but I believe it is useful for thinking about our part in creation. We are not just audience members to a beautiful show, but essential performers in it. Not only do we add richness to creation with our literature, unique cultural foods, art and music, but when we live in harmony with creation, we have the potential to transform chaos into beauty. Now forgive me for the arrogant analogy, but imagine that you were the Grand Designer of earth. Perhaps you would have taken a moment to appreciate the chaos, beautiful in a unique way, of vegetation growing wild, no one to prune the trees, plant flower gardens or manage the weeds, the whole world resembling my dad's abandoned terminal. But can you empathize with how the Grand Designer, God, could have come to the conclusion that the creation of humans with higher intelligence that he hoped would live in harmony with nature and bring order to the chaos is akin to the cake that is alright without icing, but so much better once the icing is added?

Of course, whether we are religious or not, we can all agree that we have not lived in harmony with nature. Collectively, you could say in general that those of us who live in wealthy countries have viewed ourselves as the sopranos who carry the melody of the song in the worldly sense that we dominate the world economy. We perceive other singers as less valuable, creating a system in which less desirable jobs like meat packing are predominantly filled by undocumented immigrants who are forced to accept lower wages, and where manufacturing of everything from garments to smartphones is outsourced to countries in Asia in pursuit of cheap, unregulated labor. But all humans to some extent have viewed the orchestra of nature as free for exploitation, valuing a rainforest not for its beautiful biodiversity but for the wood we can extract from it, and the vast amount of land that could be cleared for industrial agriculture. While very few of us are lobbyists for the fossil fuel industry, or the heads of companies responsible for deforestation, we all, at least in the developed world, were born into a system, an industrial society such that we really cannot avoid the use of fossil fuels if we want to participate in mainstream society. Not only that, but the global supply chain has become so complex that even if we try to be environmentally responsible, it is impossible to get everything right.

For example, when my dad retired in September 2020 and had to return his company car, we realized we would be just fine with only one car. I cannot drive, and our commitments are minimal enough that we have had no trouble communicating and coordinating. On a couple rare occasions, I have been a little annoyed that Mom and I had to sit and wait a few minutes for Dad to pick us up, or that Mom and I had to sit in the parking lot waiting for Dad, and would think back nostalgically to "the good old days." But when I am thinking clearly again, I realize this attitude is embarrassing evidence of how thoroughly I have embraced the entitled, individualistic Western mindset. Families shared resources, and sacrificed for the collective good for most of human history, and still do in most parts of the world today. In addition to saving money by only having to pay for the maintenance of one car, we are also taking a small step toward being better environmental stewards. I am intrigued by the insight of some environmental activists who envision a future of car sharing rather than car ownership, since most of the time, most cars are sitting idle in parking lots and garages that could one day be restored as green spaces, and all of that metal and other resources from all of these underutilized cars could be recycled and used in a more constructive way. But given society as it currently is, especially for suburbanites like our family, we aren't ready for that yet. But while owning one car is still necessary, when you think about it, environmental activists would be fair in arguing that for a household like ours, owning two cars is excessive. I think there has only been one instance when Mom needed to take a trip to visit Granny and Dad stayed home, when we rented a car because Dad and I were a little nervous about being "stranded" for two days. But Mom pointed out that even then, we could have planned ahead, ensuring the house was stocked with groceries before she left, and calling a taxi service or neighbor in a true emergency. We, as a society have just become so accustomed to individualism and convenience that we have forgotten how to share, coordinate, live creatively. When our old minivan required expensive repairs that we couldn't justify given how old it was and how many miles it had on it, we purchased a smaller, fuel efficient car. It is not an electric car. We decided to wait for the price to come down, and for the technology and infrastructure for charging these vehicles to improve. But it is a little disconcerting, but kind of cool how the engine shuts off at stoplights. This is just one example of how my parents and I try to live simply, be good environmental stewards. But then, while reading this article to refresh my memory on the heartbreaking story of the Amazon rainforest destruction in 2019, I read that leather from cattle ranchers in the Amazon rainforest is shipped to car and furniture manufacturers all over the U.S. Our car has leather seats. This is just one example of many I could have used which shows that much as we might sincerely want to be good environmental stewards, given the engrained complexity (chaos) of our industrial society, every single one of us is singing out of tune with Creation.

But what is beautiful about the Christian worldview is that it doesn't give up on us. Of course, because of our sinful state, we will never be completely in sync with the Conductor until Christ returns to redeem all things, including our hearts. But Jesus is clear that we are called to try and offer the world a foretaste of God's kingdom now. It is hard not to be discouraged by the extent of devastation we have caused, the hurricanes, droughts, floods and wildfires that seem to get worse each year. I admit I have wondered myself why God has let the show go on this long. But I think this sense of hopelessness explains some of our paralysis and inaction. I wish everyone would trust in the Christian God, because as I will elaborate on more in my next post, God's Holy Spirit could give us the perspective we need to address climate change more constructively. But even if you don't yet believe in the Christian God, I hope I can inspire some antihumanists not to mourn the fact that the universe has let our terrible show go on this long, but instead to see this as a beautiful act of mercy. Every day we are still breathing, we have a chance to repent of our greed and exploitation of one another and of Creation, and start to reclaim the beautiful song we were created to sing, in harmony with one another, and with the orchestra of Creation.

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Hello readers, I hope you are doing well as we approach the end of winter and the start of Spring. Overall, I am doing well, although I have been feeling a little out of sorts, not in a severe sense, but in a way that has felt too complicated to write about. But I have felt compelled to listen to memoirs on Audible, and actually reading memoirs has been quite therapeutic for me. Despite writing a memoir a couple years ago, which I published here last summer, I hadn't actually read very many memoirs, partly due to the busyness of life, and partly due to my cynicism. The memoirs you hear about written by famous people are often written with an agenda--publicity for someone interested in running for president for example--and what worse is these memoirs are often written by ghost writers, which in my mind is cheating.

But maybe the Lord works in funny ways because Prince Harry's memoir Spare, was released shortly before my sister's birthday. It so happened that Queen Elizabeth passed away while we were on our family vacation in Hilton Head, where I was surprised and amused by my sister's interest in all of the royal family intrigue, so when Spare was released, I decided to text her and ask if she would like me to buy her a copy for her birthday. She indicated she was interested, but also asked if I had read it, to which I ribbed her light-heartedly, responding that I didn't intend to read it because life is too short to waste on tabloid gossip. But then I told her I would have an open mind and read it for purposes of sister bonding. So in honor of this commitment to my sister, I found the book on Audible, read by Prince Harry himself. Yes, Prince Harry had an agenda writing this book. Having been banished from the royal family which meant losing their financial support, and having grown up so privileged that taking a job at a grocery store or something like an ordinary person banished from a dysfunctional family would was unthinkable, he most likely wrote this memoir to generate income, although he would be $20 million richer if he hadn't cheated and paid a ghost writer. But motives aside, it occurred to me after listening to this memoir that it was not the waste of 15 hours and 39 minutes of my life that I thought it would be. In fact it provided just the sense of perspective I needed in this season of my life, perspective further reenforced as I subsequently felt compelled to read Michelle Obama's memoir Becoming, Fiona Hill's memoir There is Nothing for You Here, and Barack Obama's first memoir Dreams from my Father, which by the way was not written by a ghost writer. I am pretty confident of this because Michelle mentioned in her memoir that shortly after they were married, Barack flew to Bali and spent five weeks in solitude drafting this memoir.

I will comment more on these memoirs, as well as some science fiction classics I decided to read, in subsequent posts as appropriate. But the common thread of perspective woven through all these memoirs, perspective which I sorely needed in this season, is that no one is living a fairy tale. Sure, being part of the royal family meant Prince Harry had opportunities to meet famous people and visit exotic destinations at British taxpayer expense. But this privilege was ultimately overshadowed by the turmoil of living in a family where the reputation of the institution took precedence over unconditional, authentic love. Sure, Michelle Obama was a top student and landed a job in a prestigious law firm, and then had the opportunity to make history as the first black First Lady, serving alongside the first black president of the United States. But once she had "made it" to the prestigious law firm, she realized she had spent her whole life checking boxes, desperate to prove that a black girl raised on the south side of Chicago could succeed, but never really thought about what she really wanted out of life, and ultimately accepted a dramatic pay cut to work in the government and nonprofit sectors where she could make a difference in the lives of people disadvantaged by the system. And then as First Lady, though she had unique opportunities to shape history, she also had to contend with anxiety, self-doubt, petty partisanship, racism, sexism and unfair press coverage. Though Barack Obama had an interesting upbringing, born to a father from Kenya and a white mother, living for a time in Malaysia and then Hawaii with white grandparents, he also struggled with questions of racial identity, and complex emotions regarding his father. When Fiona Hill testified at Donald Trump's first impeachment hearing, I was mesmerized by her courage, but hadn't fully appreciated until reading her memoir just how much courage it took for her to do what she did. Her father encouraged her to leave the small town in Northeast Britain, where she grew up because the classist culture of Britain, combined with Margaret Thatcher's de-industrialization policies in the 1980s meant she had no future in Britain. But when she got to this country, her academic brilliance and expertise on Russia was often not taken seriously because of sexism.

Of course, I ought to know that no one is living a fairy tale. First and foremost, Jesus himself guarantees this when he says not "In this world you might have trouble." Rather, he says, "in this world you will have trouble." And although Jesus led an exciting life traveling from village to village preaching the good news and healing people, he was despised by the Roman empire and religious leaders, betrayed, and ultimately crucified. I have also found it interesting that although in my imagination, I imagine that if I was out for a walk one day and God appeared in a burning bush to give me a special mission, I would be thrilled beyond words, Moses was not thrilled, even begged God to send someone else. Neither were the other prophets, especially Jonah who tried to run away from God.

You may recall that last summer, I wrote about longing for a sort of Rumspringa, the chance to live on my own, to (temporarily) disconnect from family a little, just as my older siblings all did for a couple years, to know what life is like "out there." I mentioned how I was about to embark on my Rumspringa with Gilbert at eighteen, but when unexpected curve balls came my way, I gave up, moving back home when I should have persevered through the struggles as my siblings did, letting them mature and refine me. In other words, I gave up on the unpleasant crawling stage, and now I am paying for it in that I never learned to fully walk as an adult. But then in a subsequent post, I spoke of how anxiety was behind many of my thoughts, and I needed to trust God, realize that he puts us all where we are for a reason, and I should let him drive my boat on this river called life because he is a far wiser driver than I am. And yet the sin of envy is a difficult one to overcome, and my resolve to trust God is easily forgotten when I hear of another peer who got married, had a child, landed an interesting job, even as intellectually I know that what you glean from social media or casual conversation at the grocery store is filtered, an accentuation of the positive, minimizing of the negative. This same filtering applies to press coverage of famous people, such that we aren't fully aware that these famous people are human like the rest of us, that their success isn't as thrilling as you imagine it would be, and most importantly that their achievements are most often not the result of anything they did right and you did wrong, but that their lives are also rivers that took them in directions they often never expected themselves.

Shortly after the trip to Appleton and the "I'm glad to see she's getting out" comment, I decided it was time to get serious and start making plans to pull off the logistics of a Rumspringa, which I realized meant finding a job again, so I would have the money to pay for housing and school tuition. Overwhelmed and discouraged in the past by intimidating job postings with descriptions like "oversee the entire operation of the department" I decided to start with a company I had heard of in passing but knew very little about. I had heard that it had a social mission of prioritizing employment for people who were blind, so figured that even if the job descriptions seemed intimidating, accessibility would be built into the company culture, so it would be easier to persevere through any challenges than with the typical company. To my delight, there was a position available for a Contact Center Agent, and as an additional bonus, it could be done remotely so long as I resided in Wisconsin, Illinois or Minnesota. Thus, the job could go with me to Trinity Evangelical Divinity School in Illinois! Thinking this was perfect divine providence, I quickly attached an updated resume and composed a cover letter, but when I clicked to the next section of the application, self-doubt reared its head. Was I really qualified for this job, or would I regret this when the virus was dormant and I was thinking clearly again? So I closed the tab for the application without fully finishing or submitting it. But to my dismay, the next day I received an email from the hiring manager expressing interest in my application, so somehow my resume was viewable after all. But not wanting to burn any bridges, and also realizing that it wouldn't hurt to be back in the workforce again, reconnecting with people and earning income whether or not I followed through with a Rumspringa, I wrote back and a phone interview was arranged. At the time, there was no work available yet, but the company was in the process of opening a new facility and the hiring manager indicated she would get back with me in a month or two.

The callback came on Friday September 9, toward the end of our Hilton Head trip. It took awhile to get some paperwork filled out and processed, but on October 5, I joined the workforce again! The job was challenging at first, but in a good way. Mostly the challenges were a result of my anxiety. Given that my previous job at the Social Security law firm involved spending as much as an hour on the phone with clients filling out forms that asked for sensitive medical information, you would think making a credit card transaction with a client would have been no big deal, but I think because of the social isolation of the pandemic, my confidence was rusty and the first few transactions were absolutely terrifying! My confidence with the JAWS screen reader was also rusty. But my fellow blind coworkers were, and still are, an incredible source of support and encouragement. I even reconnected with a boy who remembered me from the preschool program for the blind we both attended! Currently, I earn less per hour than I did at my previous job, but the job itself is also easier, which after being away from work for two years, isn't such a bad thing.

Depending on the level of business, I work between 24 and 30 hours per week. Right now most of our business comes from a Jewish company that contracts with us to make outbound calls soliciting donations for nonprofit organizations. This is actually the exact kind of job I longed for in the thick of my anxiety in the dark days of 2016 at the Social Security job, when I would find myself crying at my desk or unable to sleep at night because software wasn't as accessible as I thought it would be, and mistakes I made months ago could come back to bite me at any moment. With this new job, I largely read from a script, and every day is a fresh start, no case management required. And although I had one week of low grades in my theology class as I adjusted to the job, by the following week I had found my footing and realized that I would be able to hold down a job and still have enough bandwidth left to pursue a Chaplaincy degree if I chose. It was looking like all the pieces might be falling in place to embark on a Rumspringa in Fall 2023!

Despite another flare-up of my irritability at Christmas, something kept me from moving full-speed ahead with Rumspringa planning in January. And then came February 17.

Friday February 17, 2017 will always occupy a special place in my heart. As I wrote about in 2018, this was the day the dark cloud fully lifted from my soul. In 2016, though I wouldn't say I had a plan to harm myself, my mind went to places that frightened me. Despite the anxiety that job was causing, my pride kept me from asking my manager for help, and I feared being perceived as a quitter by potential future employers if I resigned without having another job lined up. And unlike a couple rough school years, made more bearable by eagerly anticipating a firm end date--summer vacation--I realized bitterly that now that I was in the adult world, I wasn't sure if or when a respite would ever come. Starting in January, I tried desperately to land a job in state government. I thoroughly enjoyed my experience as an intern at the Milwaukee office of Governor Scott Walker in 2011, not only because it was an interesting experience learning about the politics of state government, but also because I was impressed with how on-the-ball the staff was with providing the accommodations I needed from day one. In 2016, I was invited to interview for three state government positions, but all three decided to "go forward with another candidate." Then in December 2016, my manager offered me a new position where my sole responsibility would be filing appeals for clients whose initial application for Social Security disability was denied (which is pretty much everybody), and I think after only the second day in this position, I realized that my anxiety had melted away. At first, going through the form online with clients was draining, but soon, I found my flow. The form was entirely accessible with my screen reader, and while I was tired at the end of each day, I could sleep peacefully at night again. The only thing I still longed for was better work-life balance.

That Friday was a particularly slow day as two of the clients I called did not answer the phone for their scheduled appointments with me, and looking ahead at my Google schedule, on which I think I had created timeslots going out a month, I noticed that although some appeals had been scheduled, there were several empty slots, even in the upcoming week, and so the thought occurred to me that I could go part-time! It wouldn't cause the company any hardship: in fact working less days would better ensure that all timeslots were filled, improving productivity and thus doing the company a favor. As a full-time employee, the company reimbursed half of my insurance premium, the only expense my parents asked me to cover, but I realized if I worked three days a week, I would still earn enough to cover the full premium. I cannot really profess in good conscience that the Holy Spirit directed me because I didn't pray about it, nor did I go home and discuss this idea with family and risk being talked out of it. But something, some intuition, a sensation of inner peace just came over me. So at around 3:00 that Friday afternoon, I turned around and made this proposal to my boss, who worked at a desk right behind me, and to my delight, she agreed!

I know that good writers aren't supposed to employ cliches, but I really cannot think of a better way to describe my mood that afternoon than the feeling that a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I like to think that God was smiling down on me too because the weather that weekend was unusually warm and Spring-like. That Sunday, the sermon in church reflected on the moment when Joshua took the helm of leadership after Moses died and had to lead the Israelites across the fearsome Jordan River into the Promise Land and take new ground. The pastor reflected that in our lives, we often have to muster the courage to do something risky in order to take the new ground God may want us to take in our own lives. I smiled to myself, realizing that is exactly what I had done Friday. The decision would have consequences: I would earn less money, and potential future employers might question my work ethic when my resume shows that I switched from full-time to part-time. But I was confident that ultimately the reward would outweigh the risk. I would still have the dignity of earning my own income and contributing to society, and yet I would have the time and mental bandwidth to sing in choir again, smile again, dream again. On Friday February 17, 2023 as I sat down to a bowl of the yummy bean soup I make every week--which I started preparing in the crock-pot as one of my first new hobbies after going part-time, and which I perfected even further during the pandemic--I gasped internally as I realized it was six years to the very day of that born-again sort of moment. This made the soup even more comforting and delicious as I realized just how blessed I am, and fully appreciated the truth and insight of a Trinity classmate who told me God has us exactly where he wants us to be. I had experienced pangs of longing to try a Rumspringa again in 2015 and 2016 as well, but had I been on my own then, my heart would have sank that Friday afternoon in 2017 and I would not have been able to turn to my boss and make this request as it would not have been financially feasible.

But then, lying in bed that night, I checked my Trinity school e-mail, where a broadcast had been sent by the president of Trinity indicating that out of financial necessity, the university would be moving all undergraduate programs entirely online. He also pointed out that financial strain, and declining interest in residential programs was the trend nationwide, affecting all but the largest, most elite universities. I was aware that Trinity, like all nondenominational, evangelical seminaries were facing financial challenges, and last year during a Zoom session of my American Church History class, we discussed this article, published in Christianity Today. I knew abstractly that Trinity would be implementing plans to cut costs and adapt to the future. But reading this official, concrete decision saddened me in a personal way that surprised me. I was sad in the general sense for future undergraduate students nationwide who would never experience the lively class discussions and college social life that online education just cannot replicate. But selfishly, I was also sad on an individual level. Due to various circumstances, I was not ready to fully experience college social life and live on my own at 18, but now that I was older and wiser, and now that advancements in technology have dramatically increased the availability of college textbooks in e-book form, I was ready for a do-over. But this e-mail from Trinity forced me to reexamine this dream. The e-mail did not indicate any changes to the graduate level Chaplaincy program, but the Christianity Today article from the previous year did indicate declining graduate enrollment, and my dream centered on being part of a dynamic, thriving community where social opportunities, and opportunities to engage in interesting theological discussion were within walking distance. But with undergraduate students gone and graduate students sparse, would I be even lonelier there than I am in our suburb with no sidewalks, but where I have my parents to laugh with over a TV show and share meals with? With a wry smile, I sighed, put my phone on my nightstand, rolled over and went to sleep grumbling to God, "why do I have a knack for choosing paths that are about to be obsolete: newspaper Journalism as an undergraduate, and now this?

For a couple weeks following this news, I was in a "blah" kind of mood, going through the motions of work, passing the time reading memoirs after work, all the while feeling discouraged and uncertain. As I said before, I didn't mind, in fact I relished the tedium of my job, but I also imagined that it would be temporary, the equivalent of the sighted young adult taking a job as a waitress to pay her way through school, and then spreading her wings and moving on to new horizons. But now, I wasn't sure how to proceed.

But gradually through prayer and reflection over the past month, God has led me to some insight that has lifted my spirits. For one thing, I think God used this news to slow me down, to force me to examine my true motives. Regarding the Rumspringa part of my dream, the realization even on the afternoon before reading that e-mail that going part-time would not have been possible if I had been on my own later led to the realization that if I moved to Trinity, I might need to work full-time again, perhaps leaving little time or energy for the very social and intellectual opportunities I craved. I have some savings, but my dad, who is more money-wise than I am, told me that given the high costs of living, my savings would be gone in a flash, and he is most likely right. And if I am being fully honest, some of my longing may not even be a true desire in my heart of hearts, but the result of cultural conditioning, and also a desire to win the esteem of my parents and siblings. Though they have reassured me this isn't the case, sometimes I cannot shake the feeling that they perceive me as the special needs child/handicapped little sister, and I imagine that the Rumspringa would once and for all shatter this feeling. But then the week after reading this e-mail, I read the book Rethinking Life, by Shane Claiborne, a co-founder of Red Letter Christians, an organization whose philosophies I agree with, especially their stance against Christian Nationalism. In the first chapter, Shane quoted a friend and wildlife expert, and the quote struck me. "Uniformity is diabolical. Diversity is divine!" The context of this quote was that we should cherish the diversity of God's creation, as well as the beautiful diversity of languages, cultures and abilities that God intended for humanity, but this could also apply to life paths. Human history is full of stories of people pressured to conform to the culture around them, get married or pursue an inappropriate career path, and the results have all too often been diabolical, as they missed out on a better path God may have had in store for them. By contrast, those who found the courage to resist pressure to conform sometimes suffered consequences such as being marginalized by society, even shunned by their own families, but when they reflect on their lives, they often realize those consequences were worth the divine joy they ultimately experienced by listening to the Holy Spirit. It is hard to take this insight to heart when something triggers the virus of irritability, but I am trying to pray for the calmness and maturity to respond in a constructive, spiritually mature manner the next time it flares up, and also to realize that these hardships are trivial compared to the opportunities I would have missed out on, the academic achievement that may have been unattainable, had I conformed to traditional ideas of what it means to be a young adult, just to prove something. And to be honest, before choosing Carroll University for my undergraduate education, and before choosing to work part-time, I experienced a deep, spiritual calmness, a certainty that I was making the right decision, and while having a Rumspringa seems like an exciting idea, I have yet to experience that spiritual calmness when I actually seriously contemplate sitting down and filling out a student housing application. Perhaps, God used this e-mail to slow me down, help me realize that I should not go forward with such a momentous, life-altering decision unless or until He gives me that deep spiritual calmness, the peace that comes from knowing for certain that I am letting Him drive the boat on this river of life rather than insisting on my own route which could ultimately lead to destruction or at least an unnecessary detour into rough waters.

As for Chaplaincy itself, I could still study to become a Chaplain. Dallas Theological Seminary offers the chaplaincy coursework entirely online, and there are plenty of local hospitals and churches where I could meet the Clinical Pastoral Education requirements and still live with my parents. But once again when visiting Granny in the nursing home over Christmas this year, I found that I was deeply uncomfortable, unsure what to say or how to minister to her. Mom asked me to sing a couple songs, which I reluctantly did: I am more comfortable singing in choir than singing solo. But she was in pain, that day, softly moaning it seemed while I was singing, such that I couldn't tell if she was really enjoying my singing or if, had she the strength to speak, she would have asked me to shut up and leave her alone. Mom assured me that Granny was smiling. I was sad, even a little angry that in the 21st century and the wealthiest country on earth, the best we can do for elderly people like my Granny is warehouse them in a place that smells like poo, with few enrichment activities and feed them a gross, pureed diet of food that is not meant to be pureed, like fried chicken which comes out dry and difficult to swallow. Spiritual care for the patients is sorely needed in places like this, but given my uncertainty in knowing how to minister to Granny, am I really the person God is calling to provide such care? Furthermore, the idea of pursuing Chaplaincy arose from how much I enjoyed talking to cancer patients in my previous job because I could relate to them as a brain tumor survivor but also because they were so gracious and had their lives in beautiful perspective. But the true spiritual maturity required of Chaplains would also require loving those who are difficult to love, including the people whose only disability was back pain who sometimes cussed at me because their cases weren't progressing fast enough. Am I truly the person God is calling to a ministry that would demand such mentally exhausting, self-sacrificial love, day in and day out? I still haven't ruled out chaplaincy, and Mom reminded me that if I am uncomfortable in hospital/nursing home settings, chaplains also serve in colleges, even corporations. But what I am realizing about the Rumspringa idea, and the contemplation of Chaplaincy as a career path is that I need to be patient, to pray more about my true motivations and not rush ahead of God. If I have learned anything these past six years, it is that life is full of uncertainty and perhaps to keep us from being overwhelmed by this, God often only shows us the path ahead a little at a time. In those dark days of 2016, I feared they would last forever--or at least until retirement age--because I couldn't get into state government, but then my manager offered me a more suitable position and I felt prompted to go part-time, a path I hadn't expected but one which turned out for the best. It still wasn't a dream job, but I think I could have tolerated it until retirement age. But then of course came the pandemic which took the whole world by surprise, and again I felt a spiritual calmness when I decided to resign and take seminary classes, and then I was offered my current job. This job doesn't utilize my undergraduate nor my seminary education, but time and time again, pastors have cited Scripture in their sermons which has reassured me that God does not waste any experiences. It is hard not to feel as though I have gone backwards in my progression through life, to wonder if I will ever find my true purpose in life, especially as I approach my 33rd birthday and the cusp of transitioning from young to middle-age. Then again, Moses must have felt the same way when he grew up in Pharaoh's palace, and then had to flee and ended up working as a shepherd for forty years, before God's purpose was revealed to him at 80 years old! Age really is just a number. I don't know what the future holds, but I should know well by now given my emergence from the dark days of 2016 and the unexpected way God used the pandemic in my life that God knows what He is doing. I have resolved to continue to pray and trust in this, taking one day at a time. If or when God calls me to a new vocation or living arrangement, He will let me know.

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I was on track to set out on my Rumspringa August 29, 2008 when my parents helped me move into the college dorm. I gave Disability Services the textbooks I needed months in advance, and after three weeks of guide dog training, Gilbert and I could expertly navigate the routes to the dining room and all of my classes. Mom offered to come to campus and just observe our walk to class the first day, just to make sure I had no trouble. It was a good thing she did because when Gilbert and I crossed the street from the dorm, we were greeted by construction trucks and jackhammers. No one told us they planned to start major construction the first day of school on a significant portion of the sidewalk Gilbert and I depended on, and we were both frightened by the noise of the jackhammers. My textbooks weren't ready until several weeks into the semester either, so my parents had to come to campus every morning to help Gilbert and me navigate the construction, and then meet us after class to read textbook chapters to me so I wouldn't fall behind. I lived exactly one week in the dorm before my parents and I decided the routine was exhausting and it would be much easier to live at home and commute to college. I kept the dorm room that first year as I think it was nonrefundable, and once the textbooks were ready, it was a nice place to rest and study between classes, and I would spend the occasional Saturday there if there was a weekend event I wanted to participate in. But for the most part, I lived at home, and sophomore year, we decided not to renew the dorm.

Neither Gilbert nor I actually liked dorm life all that much. Gilbert seemed depressed by the lack of space to run around. Since I had to share the bathroom with other girls, I had to carry all of my toiletries to the bathroom and back each morning, and while I might have gotten used to this routine if I had held on a little longer, I found it made me so inefficient and slow in the morning I barely made it to class on time. I also found the furniture at home to be way more comfortable, Mom's home cooked food so much more delicious. My struggles were unique to my disability, but I remember my siblings sharing struggles of their own when they first lived on their own. But they stuck it out. With each passing year, I kick myself harder and harder for not sticking it out. I could have waved down someone to help Gilbert and me get around the construction that first day, and then called the trainer and ask him to come back as soon as possible to train us to navigate the construction site. (I also should have figured out the proper channels to write someone an angry letter for not bothering to tell us that the sidewalk we trained on almost every day for three weeks was going to be ripped up.) I could have marched my textbooks down to Disability Services and demanded they pay someone to read them to me until they got their act together. Instead I just gave up, despite having a motivating aid from fifth grade through high school who always encouraged me to "never, never, never give up!" And now I am paying the price with this dormant virus of depression and anger.

I recognize that I am blessed to have the parents I do, and to be able to live with my parents, a blessing brought into sharper focus by the pandemic. As I have mentioned before, during the pandemic, I witnessed so many friends and relatives who lived alone spiral into depression and anxiety. Right from Genesis when God looks upon Adam and said "it is not good for man to be alone," the Bible is clear that humans need community, and I really do enjoy living in community with my parents. When we have lively dinner discussions about politics, or Mom and Dad tell me nostalgically about old TV shows, or when we hear a song from their youth on the radio and they laugh when the song makes me laugh ("Everybody loves a clown so why can't you? Clowns have feelings too") I feel warm inside, as I am well aware that if I lived on my own I would likely be eating and completing household chores in lonely silence much of the time. I also don't take for granted that my parents cook delicious food that is beyond my cooking comfort zone. I make a really delicious batch of bean soup in the crock-pot each week that is my lunch, and I would like to expand my crock-pot repertoire to cook things like chicken stew or turkey breast in a healthy gravy for dinner. But I don't feel comfortable cooking meat or vegetables over the open flame of a grill, and food prepared on the grill is so delicious! I don't take for granted all of the tedious but essential chores my parents handle that would fall entirely to me if I lived on my own, such as sorting and washing my laundry so that all I have to do is put it away, filling up my pill box each week with the medications my medical conditions require, shoveling snow in the winter, cleaning the bathrooms, mopping the floors. I don't take for granted the fact that my parents paid our undergraduate college tuition when many parents who are financially able to do this require their children to work and pay their own way. Thus, unlike so many of our peers, we won't have to make student loan payments until we are practically senior citizens, thus setting my siblings and me up for a much less stressful life. There is no access to public transportation where I live, but my parents were happy to drive me to college and to work every day, as well as any social events I wanted to attend. Today, they drive me to choir, about a half hour drive, every Tuesday during the school year, without complaint, even in cold, nasty winter weather. My dad started getting massages at the gym and he thought they might help my headaches. I loved the idea, but didn't want to pay for them out of my own money because it seemed too frivolous for me, but my parents are willing to pay for them, in addition to the monthly gym membership to go swimming. Given Celiac Disease, I have to avoid gluten, but I also choose to avoid dairy, red meat, and starchy complements (at dinner) for health reasons. But my parents patiently adapt meals for me, helping me find the riced cauliflower to substitute for mashed potatoes, or making a portion of a casserole without cheese. My parents model Christ in their unconditional love, and in showering me with blessings I do not deserve, exacerbating my flare-ups of depression and anger with a sickening layer of guilt. I know these feelings are irrational, not only because of how much my parents bless me, but also compared to the 99 percent of the world's population who have real hardships to be depressed and angry about. But I don't know how to "snap out of it." Donald Trump's spectacular display of narcissism which has played out on TV the past six years is painful to watch, but what is even more painful is the fear that I might be just like him at times.

My blindness was caused by a brain tumor that damaged my optic nerve when I was about seven months old. Because the brain tumor also caused paralysis and a loss of muscle tone on my right side, and because I had to be taught how to crawl and walk, skills that most children learn by watching others, I attended a special preschool program for blind children where I received intensive physical therapy. Mom told me that physical therapy was the only time I cried a little in preschool, and I especially hated crawling. But the physical therapist said that crawling is an essential developmental milestone that cannot be skipped. Perhaps the same could be said of the Rumspringa. I remember my siblings behaving much the same way I do today their final years of high school, begging my parents to trust them to stay home, fighting over the pettiest things. But the Rumspringa matured them, and now when they come to visit, it is an idyllic time to laugh, play games and catch up. Things they used to fight about are now a distant memory, or are in proper perspective, a source of light-hearted teasing instead. But because I skipped my Rumspringa, or more accurately, did not persevere through my Rumspringa long enough to allow it to refine me, I feel as though time froze at sixteen or seventeen years old even though I am now 32, and I all-too-often behave accordingly.

From what I have written so far, you might understandably think that my longing for my Rumspringa is based entirely on superficial and petty motives, just to get away from the family, to be unsupervised, out of reach, never pressured to take a trip ever again, but it's really not that simple. It's not about the trips. Sure, I can see myself opting out of a trip or two, especially if they are ten days long and I have just started a new internship or job. I could also see myself, for a trip or two at least, taking full advantage of being a separate entity from my parents and coming along on the trip, but on my own terms, booking my flight home from New York City Saturday afternoon rather than Sunday evening so that I have a day to rest, and allow my blood pressure to recover, before going back to work. The dread of prolonged time on-leash causes the most intense flare-ups, but other things cause twinges of depression or anxiety too. Every time I find out that one of my peers got married or is expecting their first child. Every time I go visit one of my siblings and they take the lead, showing us around their community. I am happy for them, but deep down, I long to know what it would be like to be the leader, to show my family around a community I just moved to instead of always being the handicapped, tag-along kid. Every time my parents discuss the reality that they are aging.

My parents said I always have a home with them (as do my siblings if they ever fell on hard times). But given the reality of the natural order, there will most likely come a day when my parents will no longer be with us, and a day could come years before that when they are alive but in a condition where they are no longer able to assist me. If I have never had to manage completely on my own, will I know how to manage when this day comes? My dad has alluded to my siblings looking after me, and if this means them calling every day to check in, I'm all for that. And these calls would be mutual, as we are all human and will need comfort and support from one another. But I don't want to be the handicapped little sister who moves in with a sibling, especially if by that time, I am established in a community and a career. I feel like I ought to experience living on my own while my parents are still healthy and can guide me through the learning curves, just as they guided my older siblings.

When I expressed some of this anxiety as part of a discussion thread for the spiritual formation class last year, a wise student with more experience in ministry responded that God puts us exactly where we are for a purpose. God often brings this comment back to mind when I am feeling depressed or anxious, and it does make me feel a little better. When I was 18 years old, I didn't fully understand my medical situation, especially the tendency for my electrolytes to get off-balance when I am sick. Nowadays, I am aware of the symptoms when my sodium is low or I am dehydrated, but I did not know this could happen to me the first time I passed out the day after my 20th birthday, or when I had a seizure due to low sodium in 2017. If I had been living on my own, I would not have known that I was in trouble, and might not have been found until it was too late. I don't take for granted that perhaps God kept me at home with my parents to protect and preserve me. By keeping me at home, God also ensured that I would be able to perform to my fullest academic potential, graduating magna cum laude, an achievement that would not have been possible if I had to manage on my own at such a young age. Most importantly, while this purpose isn't entirely pleasant, God's work does involve pruning to ensure that the lives of his followers produce good fruit, and by keeping me with my parents, God forces me to confront my hypocrisy, teaching me that the character of a chaplain is first cultivated in the family.

It just so happens that my church is doing a series on the fruit of the spirit which Paul lists in Galatians 5:22. And in God's perfect timing, the focus of last Sunday's sermon was on peace. It was almost scary the degree to which God spoke to me through this sermon. The pastor even shared a story about something his own father said that caused him anxiety, a father whom he has a wonderful, loving relationship with, just as I have with my father. This sermon was convicting in a loving, compassionate way. The pastor explained that the definition of true peace is "confidence in God's goodness and wise control over your life." The opposite of peace, anxiety, occurs when we want to be in control of our lives, even though we often don't know what we are doing, or what is best for us. We might attain a superficial definition of peace by trying to control our own lives, but this behavior will never lead to authentic, lasting peace, and will ultimately strain our relationships and rob us of the abundant life God intended for us. We can invite God, through prayer, to transform our anxiety into peace by helping us confront the brokenness of this world (which includes hurtful things said to us by people we love), confronting our own selfish desires, which the apostle Paul refers to as the desires of the flesh, which are completely contrary to, and incompatible with the desires of the spirit, and the devil's schemes. Therefore, I am in a calmer frame of mind with this post than I was in writing Part 1. I definitely need to spend more time in prayer, when the virus flares up, but even when it is dormant because prayer is a discipline that does not come naturally in this fallen world, and because prayer isn't second-nature for me, I don't have the wherewithall to start praying when the virus flares up.

I know that in the past, I have committed to prayer and fasting on this blog, and then did not end up following through. In the case of fasting, my failure to follow through has been mostly the result of anxiety about feeling hungry, possibly not feeling well, and being cranky as a result, especially since I am prone to migraines, and on Fridays, the day I planned to start fasting, I often accompany my parents to the gym to swim laps while they attend a water exercise class. But another contributing factor is occasional comments like the one from my sister mentioned in Part 1. After such comments, in my flare-up of anger, I find myself thinking, "I ought to start fasting to prove to my family that food does not motivate me anymore," clearly an impure motive. First of all, as Jesus teaches in Matthew 6, we are not to be like the Pharisees when it comes to disciplines like prayer and fasting, broadcasting our piety for all to see. We are to practice these disciplines secretly, only for an audience of one, God. I am not an expert theologian, and Scripture does not address my specific situation, but I think it is reasonable to assume from this teaching that I will have "received my reward in full" in this life by bragging to my family that I was capable of fasting (Matthew 6:17). (I am just realizing as I write this that writing a reflection on my first experience fasting, something I planned to do if I managed to follow through, might also deem me a modern-day pharisee. As such, if I ever do actually get my life together and let God transform me, I will definitely write about this, but not the specifics of my spiritual disciplines.) We also discussed in my Spiritual Formation class how the purpose of fasting is not to engage in asceticism for its own sake, as this can lead to self-righteousness and pride. The purpose of fasting is to draw closer to God. But now that I am realizing that anxiety is at the root of both my fear of fasting, and my depression and anger toward family, I am hoping that if I can let God transform my anxiety to peace, fasting may be a natural outgrowth of this in the near future.

Last week's sermon has been an incredible source of peace for me this week. I did not have a single flare-up, and yesterday I even read about the house where we will be staying in Hilton Head, progress since even casual mention of things we should pack for the trip when my brother came to visit a few weeks ago filled me with dread.

Incidentally, the next fruit of the spirit in Paul's list, and thus the sermon for tomorrow, will be on patience, and I have no doubt this sermon will also be convicting, as I think impatience undergirds my anxiety. Even though I have seen God at work when I was patient, I still have difficulty trusting God to unfold my life one day at a time and not worry about the future, not give into fear that I will never feel like a full-fledged adult, that I skipped a critical rite of passage, and that this will thwart my ability to fully thrive in life.

I have made progress in that as I finished Part 1 last week, I had angry/desperate visions of returning from Hilton Head and proceeding full-speed ahead in arranging for my Rumspringa by Summer 2023, neither soliciting nor accepting input from anyone. Without doing any research or visiting campus housing to assess the vibes, I planned to live on-campus at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School in Illinois to complete the courses for the Chaplaincy degree which are not offered online. (In June, I applied for a remote call center position with a company whose mission is employing blind people, so accessibility would be built in. This job is authorized for residents of Wisconsin, Illinois or Minnesota, so the job could move to Trinity with me and allow me to finance my Rumspringa. But I have yet to hear back from them.) Now, while I cannot say I have ruled out Trinity, I am willing to listen to God's whisper. The spector of a looming recession is dominating the news cycle now, so it is possible the remote job may not work out after all, perhaps a whisper from God. I am open to the idea of chaplaincy programs available online, or at a university closer to home. I might even enlist the help of a pastor to pray with me, make sure I am making decisions with a clear head, not based solely on my selfish desire for independence, and related to that, perhaps offer objective agenda-free advice on where God may be calling me, and what kind of education would be best suited for this calling.

But it is too soon to know if I am truly at peace, ready to surrender to God's will, or if the virus is just dormant this week, no comments or situations that caused my anxiety to flare up. Today, I wouldn't say my desire for a sort of Rumspringa is quelled, but it has cooled from a volcano of anger and desperation to a mellow curiosity over what it would be like to experience, in the words of one of my favorite songs from the Dixie Chicks, "wide open spaces, room to make a big mistake, new faces." But as thrilling as this concept seems, I also "know the high stakes" especially given my medical situation. So while I cannot quite say I have totally surrendered to God's will, I may be making progress toward trusting that God knows what he is doing, knows what is best for me, even if it is completely at odds with the "desires of my flesh." Please pray that I can continue to make progress in this area, and that I might have the wherewithall to pray for God's peace when the nasty virus of depression and anxiety flares up again.

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Hello readers. I hope you are all enjoying summer. For the most part, I am, but I have to confess I have been a little irritable lately. Part of this I think is due to the heat and humidity. Perhaps because of climate change, it seems like heat and humidity gets to me, even in the house with the air conditioner on. But two other factors have made me irritable the past several summers. Actually, these factors aren’t exclusively limited to summer. Like a dormant virus, I can be fine for months, and then something will happen that triggers this irritability. It can be triggered in the winter, but it really seems to flare up in the summer, perhaps because my patience is lower due to the heat and humidity, but I think another factor is that in the winter, it is more socially acceptable to be the introverted homebody that I am, and also because winter cultural activities that do require leaving the house (choral concerts, symphony orchestra performances, musicals) appeal more to my interests than the summer culture. I have wanted to write about this for years but struggled to find the words. I wanted to be completely honest, but in a way that was mature, thoughtful, respectful, as I do live a blessed life and I don’t want to hurt the feelings of my family whom I love dearly. The situations that can trigger me are on the surface so petty and selfish that even I am embarrassed by them, and this makes me feel even worse. But I think simmering beneath the surface of all these triggers is anxiety about how it seems like I am not where I should be in life, that I am not where my older siblings were when they were my age, that my siblings and peers are growing up and changing without me and I will always be the unemployed or underemployed handicapped child living at home.

On Saturday June 18, the day before Father’s Day, I accompanied my parents on a day trip to visit my brother and his wife who live in a friendly small town about an hour and a half away. Other than going to church and the gym to swim a few times, I had hardly left the house in recent weeks. Choir was over for the summer, and it had been unpleasantly hot and humid, not to mention that I am an introvert who feels most contented off-leash at home. Sure, I spend a lot of time “hulled up in my room” but when I am in my room, I am not playing mindless video games, or immersing myself in online communities that promote hate or q’annon conspiracy theories. I rarely even engage with my social media accounts anymore, especially since I became more aware during the pandemic of the degree to which news feeds are manipulated by algorithms to keep users addicted and angry. When I am “hulled up in my room” I am reading a thoughtful book or article from respected magazines like The Atlantic or The New York Times, listening to thoughtful podcasts like Throughline and Shake the Dust,taking online seminary courses, or writing. I also enjoy coming out of my room to sit around the table with my parents at mealtimes, and I look forward to interacting with friends in choir, at church and at the gym. In other words, while I do enjoy being at home, I AM NOT A HERMIT! Anyway, that Saturday, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to be on-leash for a day. My brother and his wife enjoy coming to visit us, but it had been almost a year since I had visited them, and that day we were given a respite from the heat and humidity, the perfect day to stroll through their local farmers market enjoying wonderful aromas from food vendors and listening to local musicians. My brother’s wife also mentioned taking a local riverboat tour, and I enjoy boat tours. The sighted people enjoy the scenery while I enjoy an informative, and sometimes entertaining narration of the sights, and not through an annoying headset. Sometimes, I don’t even give my full attention to the narration but just enjoy the feel of the breeze on my face and the sound of the lapping water. But as we were heading out of town, Dad called Grandma on the car bluetooth to check in with her as he does every morning. When he told her where we were going, she asked, “is Allison with you?” When Dad replied that I was, she said, “Good, I’m glad to hear she’s getting out.” I love my grandma, but I couldn’t suppress a sigh of annoyance/exasperation. Fortunately I was in the middle bucket seat of our minivan, behind Mom who was sitting up front, and the bluetooth really only picks up sound from the driver and the passenger in the front seat, so hopefully she didn’t hear it. A month earlier, Grandma generously bought me a pair of New Balance shoes for my birthday, but when I insisted on efficiency in the shoe store–I have a “get ‘er done” attitude toward shopping in brick-and-mortar stores, whereas Grandma loves to shop and could have made a whole day of it–she expressed concern that I was going down the path of another mentally ill acquaintance who hardly ever leaves the house. It is true that I was among the introvert who embraced and enjoyed the pandemic restrictions that encouraged staying home, and there are a lot of activities I am invited to but take a pass on: going out to eat (except for a few trusted restaurants), museums, shopping, sporting events, outdoor music festivals where the music is amplified unnecessarily loud in the tents and where outside the tent, people are blowing second-hand cigarette smoke in my face. I have always declined these activities, but I suppose since I am no longer employed outside the house and choir is over for the summer, the amount of time I stay home is more pronounced. But even pre-pandemic when I worked outside the house three days a week at the Social Security disability lawfirm, spent three hours at church most Sunday mornings to attend an apologetics discussion group before the worship service, attended a women’s Bible study with Mom and a neighbor/longtime family friend on Tuesday mornings, went to choir rehearsal Tuesday evenings, went swimming at the gym most Thursdays, attended several excellent plays at the Milwaukee Repertory Theater with my parents, and occasionally participated in social events with a group of young adults from church on Saturdays, Dad still had the nerve to call me a hermit on a couple occasions. I distinctly remember one of those occasions being when we were watching a news story about someone who really was a hermit in the unhealthy sense of the word. I know I should give Grandma and Dad the benefit of the doubt. When I was in elementary school, I used to ride along with my dad to Indiana to visit Grandma and Grandpa. Sometimes my teenage siblings came along, but oftentimes, they stayed home. During these years, Grandpa’s health was failing, so he slept most of the day. After making him lunch and giving him his medication, he would go back to bed, and Grandma would take me shopping at the mall, where she introduced me to all the salespeople whom she knew well. Even then, I found trying on clothes to be a little tedious, but I was more compliant because I loved being the center of attention, and Grandma enjoyed lavishing me with this attention because she loved shopping, but had only sons, and I was one of only two granddaughters (the other being my sister). Perhaps she just misses the little girl I used to be. Perhaps since I am the baby of the family, Dad also misses the little girl I used to be. In addition to the aforementioned trips to Indiana, just the two of us, I often accompanied him to the bakery to get donuts on Saturdays, or to the carwash. I enjoyed this one-on-one time with Dad, and before acquiring adult interests, being at home was actually boring, especially since my teenage siblings hated my favorite kid shows. He has also told me that all his life, he felt tied down, first by the family hotel business, and then by an office job for 40 years. For him, true freedom and relaxation is getting in the car and going somewhere, anywhere, and he just wants me to be “holy, healthy and happy.” He cannot imagine that I am happy spending as much time as I do at home. When the virus is dormant, I can give family this benefit of the doubt, but when the virus flares up, all Christian clarity seems to go out the window.

My sister took the initiative to plan a family vacation in the near future. We have not managed to get the entire family together since Thanksgiving of 2019. Since then, both of my brothers have gotten married, and my sister and I have yet to meet the wife of my brother who lives out in Oregon. Their jobs have kept them too busy to make it to Wisconsin. While I am not a fan of traveling, I will concede my sister is right that our house isn’t big enough to comfortably host our growing family. My sister was worried about having only two bathrooms for nine people. (It was hard enough sharing two bathrooms with six people growing up). I would have to share my bedroom. My sister, to her credit, took my feelings into account, and instead of planning a vacation that would require sharing a tiny hotel room with snoring family members, navigating subway trains, and having to find gluten free restaurants, my sister realized that the perfect vacation for our adult family, and one that would meet all of my needs too, is a beach house vacation in Hilton Head, South Carolina. She was familiar with the beach house concept from her husband’s side of the family, and said that these houses have big fancy kitchens, so we would not have to seek out gluten free restaurants, and in fact, cooking and eating dinner together is part of the beach house experience. Furthermore, we could all choose our own leisure activities during the day, or find plenty of privacy to work from home, which she and her husband would most likely be doing, so there would be nothing wrong with me staying in my room and doing school work. My sister and her husband actually lived in Hilton Head for a few months in 2020 to escape the pandemic which was ravaging New York City, and while she has found it difficult to work remotely from other destinations due to crappy hotel Wifi, she said she had no trouble with the Wifi in Hilton Head. Each couple would have their own bedroom and bathroom, and since I do not have a partner yet, I would get a bedroom and bathroom all to myself! “I don’t rough it,” she told me. She has had some really bad hotel experiences too. On the surface, there is no rational explanation for not entirely looking forward to this vacation. I should not only be looking forward to it, but recognize what a privilege it is that my family is fortunate enough to take such a vacation that 99 percent of the world’s population can only dream of. But this was the summer I was toying with applying for a residency program at a local church to supplement my seminary studies with real-world church ministry experience, and if accepted for the program, I planned to contact Occupaws about being matched with my second guide dog. But the beach house rental contracts are for a full week, and since my sister convinced my parents to drive so that they could bring beach toys and board games that would be too difficult to fly with, we would really be away from home more like a week and a half, and the dates that worked out best for the rest of the family would be basically close to the beginning of the school year which corresponds with the beginning of many church ministry programs. When I asked hypothetically if I could stay home, or stay for a shorter duration should I be accepted into the residency program, my parents basically said no, but assured me that there is nothing wrong with informing an employer of pre-planned vacations upon hire, and that people do this all the time. Maybe so, but given that I would be missing the first or second week of ministry programs, the fear that I would be at an awkward disadvantage when I returned consumed me, and I decided not to apply. I also feel like the family doesn’t fully appreciate that given the 70 percent unemployment rate for blind people, I need to begin a new job with an even more pristine work reputation than would be required for a typical candidate. And I wasn’t sure that introducing a guide dog I had barely begun to bond with to the entire noisy family in an unfamiliar setting would be wise either. I hate that I think this way. I am aware of the irony of wanting to work in a church setting when my thoughts in my personal life are so far from the Christian walk of self-sacrificial love. I am aware, from many sermons and from my Spiritual Formation class that when pastors make their career an idol and neglect family relationships, their career, and their mental health ultimately suffers. I hate that “what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do– this I keep on doing” (Romans 7:19, TNIV). I have to say this is one of my favorite Bible verses. Knowing that even the apostle Paul struggled with this is the only reason I haven’t given into despair and hopelessness about my hypocrisy.

One career path I have been considering is chaplaincy because when I worked at the Social Security disability firm, I really enjoyed talking to people battling serious conditions like cancer, and while I wasn’t allowed to explicitly share my faith, I remember thinking that if given a little formal training and a context where I could share the Gospel, I would love to make a career of ministering to these people. But just after Christmas, the dormant irritability virus flared up again when my parents wanted to go to Indiana to visit Granny who now lives in a nursing home. None of my other siblings, or any of the cousins for that matter, would be there, and I really wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet at home to just write or maybe read a good book after what had been a busy semester. But my parents took it as a given that I would be going to Indiana, and got really upset when I tried to tell them I wanted to stay home. To be fair, when Mom saw how glum I was, we had a constructive discussion in which she confessed that she was worried about leaving me home alone overnight given my seizure in 2017. She would have let me stay home on that trip, and I was allowed to stay home without an ounce of pressure on a subsequent trip in May, but I ended up going at Christmas after all because I hadn’t visited Granny in-person since the Christmas before the pandemic, and I also heard a facetious voice from God in my mind drawing attention to my hypocrisy, “so you want to be a chaplain and sit at the bedsides of sick people, but you cannot be bothered to visit your own grandma in the same situation? Excellent career choice! And is compassion really genuine when you are being paid for the time spent at a patient’s bedside?” True compassion is cultivated when it is self-sacrificial and unpaid, which is perhaps one of the many reasons God put us in families. The greek word that translates to compassion literally means “to suffer with” and by sitting at Granny’s bedside talking to her while Mom helped her cut up some chicken they brought her for dinner, I hated feeling powerless to do anything to make her situation more enjoyable, but was moved when just being there and talking to her seemed to lift her spirits.

By the time my sister came to visit at the beginning of June, I wasn’t entirely thrilled about being away from home for a week and a half, and postponing the start of life with a new guide dog and the launch of a new career by a year, but once again, through reflection on my own hypocrisy, I was slowly coming to terms with it. In fact, I should know well from past experiencethat as cliche as the saying is, everything really does happen for a reason. Maybe I would be better prepared for the residency if I took one more year to complete a couple additional courses. Maybe God has an opportunity in store for me that is a much more appropriate fit than the residency would have been, and he orchestrated this trip, and my corresponding hesitancy to apply for the residency to slow me down so I wouldn’t miss his better plan. And then we were sitting down to dinner and while I don’t remember the exact larger context of the conversation, it had nothing to do with the Hilton Head vacation. As part of the conversation I casually mentioned that I might have to splurge and treat myself to some Brad’s crunchy kale. This snack is one of the few crunchy processed snacks I still allow myself to eat because all of the ingredients are healthy, but they are so ridiculously expensive I only order them once or twice a year. But when I said this, my sister said she could get me some in Hilton Head and that would be something to look forward to on the trip. And with that, I had a flare-up. I couldn’t shake a grumpy, glum mood the rest of her visit. First of all, it’s not as though this snack is a special treat only available in Hilton Head, in the same way that alligator stew is unique to New Orleans, or at least I have never seen it on a Midwestern restaurant menu. The crunchy kale is manufactured in Pipersville, Pennsylvania, and Mom or Dad could drive five minutes down the road and buy a bag from Pick ‘n Save. (I only order them because I feel less guilty eating them when I have bought them with my own money, and because I can get a case of 12 bags.) But more importantly, I love my sister, but with this comment, I sensed she still thinks of me as the little sister she used to babysit who could be bribed with candy.

After the farmers market that Saturday with my brother and his wife, Dad found a lunch place where I had a wonderful gluten-free salad garnished with sunflower seeds and topped with chicken, and then we came back to their house where I enjoyed a fresh peach while they sliced up some pies they bought from an amish vendor at the farmers market. As they raved about how delicious the pies were, the perfect analogy came to me, the perfect words to express what I think I need, the thing that might finally slay the dormant virus. I need my Rumspringa.

The amish community has strict rules regarding dress, simple living, moral conduct. But around age 16, amish youth go through a rite of passage called Rumspringa, a german word that translates “running around.” During this period, they are permitted to leave the community, see what it is like to live in the outside world (“dress english” drive cars, use technology, even experiment with alcohol and drugs.) After this period, which generally lasts around two years, youth must decide whether they want to be officially baptized into the amish community and live by its strict rules for life, or whether they want to live in the outside world. If they choose to live in the outside world, they are shunned, which is viewed by the community as an act of tough love.

Of course, this is far from a perfect analogy to my situation, but when youth in Western societies go off to college, strike out on their own as my older siblings did, I think you could call this a sort of Rumspringa. All of my siblings have expressed interest in spending more time with family recently, humbled by the pandemic no doubt and also because they are all married now and have reached a point in life where they are ready to settle down. But there was a period of a few years where they fell off the family map. They would generally call every couple weeks, or if we hadn’t heard from them in a couple weeks, my parents would call them for a welfare check, but they did not go to Indiana to visit extended family for holidays or summer reunions, which didn’t seem to concern my parents, and there were periods when my parents and I didn’t see them in-person for months at a time. When they did come home, they were changed people, especially my oldest brother and sister who moved further away, as they were exposed to new people, cultures and ideas. The summer after fourth grade, my parents took most of the family to Washington D.C., and over Spring break in fifth grade, most of us went on a Caribbean cruise. I say most of us because for both of these big family vacations, my oldest brother was in college, living in an apartment downtown doing his own thing, and did not come with us. I don’t remember my parents being upset by this at all. The cruise was a lot of fun, especially the day I got to kiss a dolphin in Nassau Island. The week of museums in Washington D.C., not so much. (I would not have wanted to be left home alone for a week from D.C., even if it would have been legal. I would have just liked even one day in a swimming pool instead of a museum). But on these first couple trips without my oldest brother, I remember being struck with the realization that, “wow, we will all grow up and be off doing our own thing like him someday.

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Even if sensible gun regulations are implemented, I have heard multiple experts say it will be awhile before we notice a reduction in violent crime because there are so many guns in circulation, but even if we could hypothetically pull all guns out of circulation today, someone intent on killing people could find another way. The thousands of years of human history before the invention of modern guns was plagued by violence committed using bows and arrows, swords, wild animals, stones, and of course, the cross. In my community just before Thanksgiving, a disturbed individual killed six people at a Christmas parade by intentionally plowing through the parade with his car. Early Christians permanently transformed Western society, ending the practice of gladiator rings, starting the first orphanages for unwanted children, and the first hospitals, and caring for the poor and the widowed, and in so doing, opening the eyes of many metaphorically blind people to the value of all human life. But until Christ returns and transforms hearts, there will always be people who reject him, a rejection that is externally reflected by conduct that does not value every human life, and thus, there will always be violence. But just because we mortal humans have no hope of completely eradicating violence by our own power does not give us permission to just throw in the towel, let the world crumble around us and just hunker down and endure life until God takes us to heaven. Scripture is clear that we should do what we can to seek the “peace and prosperity of the city to which I (God) have carried you into exile” because when it prospers, we also prosper (Jeremiah 29:7). For context, this verse is part of a letter that the prophet Jeremiah addressed to Israelites exiled to Babylon. False prophets had told them that this exile would be very brief and they would be able to return to their homeland quickly, an assurance which encouraged the Israelites not to get comfortable, or settle into the new land. Jeremiah’s purpose is to correct this disinformation, as God told him the exile would last seventy years, so the people should settle down, plant crops, marry, have children, and seek the peace and prosperity of their new land. But the concept of exile is a recurring theme in the Bible, and the New Testament teaches that all who wish to follow him should think of themselves as exiles. This world which has for the most part rejected Him, is not our true home. Yet it is his will that we live here awhile for the purpose of shining light into the darkness, drawing people to us by the way we live our lives and thus ultimately drawing lost people to Him.

For my American church history course this past semester, I had to read a monograph and write a critical book review. The book I chose to read was “The Color of Compromise” written by Jemar Tisby. In the opening chapter, Jemar Tisby recounts the horrific bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham September 15, 1963 which killed four young black girls. The following day, a local white lawyer, Charles Morgan Jr. gave a speech at a luncheon at the all-white Young Men’s Business Club where he stated that it really doesn’t matter who planted the bomb because i a sense, “we all did it.” This speech resulted in death threats to him and his family, to the point that he ended up closing his practice, moving away and starting a new career in civil rights law. But Jemar Tisby praised this lawyer’s bravery and willingness to speak the truth which would become the overarching theme of Jemar Tisby’s book, which is that “the most egregious acts of racism, like a church bombing, occur within a context of compromise” (Page 18). Every crude racist joke, every use of the n-word, “provided fertile soil for the seeds of hatred to grow” (Page 18). I agree with Jemar Tisby’s argument, and I believe this idea of complicity could be applied to gun violence as well. I believe Christians today have the capability, the privilege, and duty to continue reforming society just as the early Christians did. I don’t have all the answers as to how we could do this, but I think an excellent place to start would be for professed Christians to recognize and work toward ending our complicity with the violent culture. First and foremost, I think this means studying Scripture to make sure we aren’t practicing Christian nationalism, which isn’t really Christian at all, as a key feature of Christian nationalism is the conception of Jesus as a white American image of rugged masculinity. The modern conception of masculinity shames boys for crying when Scripture states that Jesus wept when his friend Lazarus died (even though he knew that God would resurrect Lazarus on his behalf) and Peter wept bitterly when the rooster crowed and he had denied Jesus three times, just as Jesus foretold he would. I am sure there are even more instances of men crying in Scripture that just aren’t coming to my mind right now. Christian nationalism hijacks the God of the Bible by reshaping and reducing him to an idol of our own imagination. One of the books I want to read this summer is “Jesus and John Wayne” which my church history professor briefly mentioned, and after reading this book, I am sure I will be inspired to write another blog with new insights on this subject. But I think I understand the issue enough to say with confidence that although there was a great deal of warfare in the Old Testament, Jesus is supposed to have transformed our hearts to seek peace, and to recognize that “all who draw the sword will die by the sword” (Matthew 26:52). To that end, I believe all Christians should follow the example of Quakers and Jehovah’s Witnesses who are pacifists. Even if our country is directly attacked, Christians should bow out and leave even defensive warfare to the secular world, recognizing that this country, determined by man-made borders is not our true home, and it is more important to pledge our allegiance to God by valuing all human life and leaving justice to Him.

Scripture permits the killing and eating of animals, and thus I think hunting is permissible. No one in our family carried on the hunting tradition after Papaw passed away. We are people who prefer the modern sanitized convenience of buying our meat from the grocery store and not having to think too much about where it came from, but I had a friend in college whose father killed a deer every year during hunting season and stored the meat in the freezer, which fed her family for months. There is nothing wrong with this. (As an aside, I think it is worth mentioning that respect for all of God’s creation mandates we only take what we need, which precludes hunting animals for the sole purpose of displaying their heads as trophies.) In any case, you do not need an assault weapon to kill a deer, and in fact when describing the power of an assault weapon to me, Mom once said if you shot a deer with such a gun, you wouldn’t have any meat left to eat! Christians should only own guns for hunting purposes, or for people living in rural areas to kill aggressive wildlife (as a last resort if more humane measures have proven ineffective, or the animal displays clear signs of having rabies). In my personal opinion, there are countless recreational activities that are more constructive than going to a shooting range, but I don’t think there is anything unbiblical about this activity done in moderation, and gun ranges could be useful for people to practice shooting if they haven’t been hunting or needed to kill an aggressive animal for awhile. But if recreation is your only reason for wanting a gun, why not just rent a gun when you get to the range, and return it when you leave? That way you can enjoy an afternoon of shooting for pleasure, and then go home and sleep easy with no worry that your gun could be stolen and used in a crime, found by a child or accessed by yourself or a family member someday in an impulsive act of desperation during a difficult season.

Christians should be the most passionate proponents of gun safety to ensure that their guns do not take human life. All Christians should follow Papaw’s lead and hide their guns so thoroughly that your children grow up not knowing where they were kept, and keep the bullets completely separate from the gun. Of course, this would make it difficult to use the gun for defense against an intruder, but if Christians are truly fearful of harm coming to them or their families at the hands of another human, they should carry something like mace to temporarily hinder the perpetrator until law enforcement can arrive and arrest them, which both respects the value of all human life, and avoids the irreversible mistake of being startled and accidentally killing a family member you thought was an intruder, a heartbreaking tragedy which occasionally makes the news.

Although I believe this is a fringe view, I think I would be remiss if I didn’t address the rationale of some that ownership of powerful guns is necessary because they may potentially need them in the future to resist a tyrannical government. It is tempting to mock such views, but I am trying to empathize by considering that at some point, we all have wild ideas, idealistic visions, especially in youth. I liken this view to when I was a teenager whose interest in journalism was sparked by Buck Williams, the brave journalist in the Left Behind Series who left his secure life at a secular newspaper to accept Christ and expose the truth about the anti-Christ even in the face of persecution. I glowed with pride my junior year of high school when I got an internship at a local newspaper where I was treated like an adult, given my own byline for a couple of real news articles and even assigned to report election results back to the editors in a 2007 local election. I couldn’t wait to graduate college and then save the world, expose lies, hold corrupt politicians accountable. But when I graduated college, the journalism landscape and the economy had changed, and I could not find a job in this field. This is not intended to be a pity party though because I realize now that even if I had landed a dream job in a news room, I really wouldn’t have made much of a difference in the world. I mean, look at how much ink was spent, how many television documentaries were made in 2015 and 2016 on Donald Trump’s complete lack of integrity and yet other forces prevailed and he was elected as our 45th president. Look at how many heartbreaking interviews journalists have conducted with grieving parents after a mass shooting, and yet many politicians are still steadfast in their unwillingness to pass sensible gun legislation. I am not saying that journalism has no value. If we didn’t have dedicated journalists to expose Donald Trump for who he is, more people might have been charmed into voting for him due to simple ignorance. If journalists didn’t interview grieving parents or survivors of gun violence, the public would have been largely ignorant about these tragedies too and therefore would not have mobilized to organize marches to demand action from legislators. But journalism must be kept in proper perspective. I had to accept that even the most brilliant and dedicated journalists are no match for the powerful forces of this fallen world. Similarly I think, a few individuals with assault rifles would in reality be no match for the capabilities a tyrannical government would have: truly rigged elections, if there are elections at all, kangaroo courts, virtually inescapable surveillance, bombs, chemical weapons. We all need to abandon childish fantasies and recognize that we mere mortals really cannot change the world, at least not by conventional methods.

Even in Jesus’s day, when people started to recognize that Jesus was the messiah they had long waited for, they had idealistic visions of him riding into Jerusalem, overthrowing the oppressive Roman empire and establishing himself as an earthly king. They had difficulty accepting the far less glamorous reality that Jesus had to be crucified and die to fulfill Scripture. We need to show mercy to Lauren Boebert instead of laughing at her (as difficult as that is) who joked at a recent Christian conference where she was invited to speak that if Jesus would have had multiple AR-15s, he could have stopped his government from killing him. From her tone it is obvious she is joking, but given the extent to which nationalism has hijacked Christianity and caused people to idolize guns, I personally think she is only half joking. But we should think of her as one of many lost sheep whom nationalism and the gun lobby have led astray. The truth of course is that Jesus actually did have a comparable (superior really) celestial equivalent to the AR-15: as the son of God, he could have called on his father in heaven who would have sent “more than twelve legions of angels” to slay his persecutors and save him (Matthew 26:53). But Jesus said his crucifixion had to happen so that Scripture could be fulfilled and our sin could be forgiven. In the same way, I think we were meant to imitate Jesus by patiently enduring any persecution that may come from a tyrannical government, and to resist not by drawing guns, but by simply living righteously, drawing people to us, and therefore to Christ by our radical, countercultural lifestyles just as the early Christians did.

Speaking of a radical, countercultural lifestyle, this is the perfect segue to my final idea, perhaps the most controversial, but I think the most important means of reforming hearts in our society. I believe violence could be reduced if violence wasn’t so casually interwoven in our culture: our music, movies, toys, video games, even true crime podcasts and television programs like Dateline. The community where my mom was raised was on the right track in strictly prohibiting children from pointing toy guns at one another. But perhaps it is time to go further and stop marketing toy guns to children, encouraging nonviolent “good guy” play instead such as fire trucks to put out pretend fires and rescue innocent people, or encourage children to imagine cops-and-robbers scenarios where they arrest the pretend robber and march him back to a pretend store to return what he stole, instead of just shooting him. I remember my science teacher from sixth grade explaining to us that candy cigarettes were first created by the tobacco companies as a marketing tactic. Smoking real cigarettes does not appeal to very young children, but the companies knew that if children had happy childhood memories of candy cigarettes, some of them would be drawn to real cigarettes when they grew up. I believe the same rationale could be applicable with toy guns. Even though most children who play with toy guns won’t grow up to kill real people, I think our culture could benefit from re-imagining childhood play, especially for boys to make sure that at least for the next generation, children do not even subconsciously associate violence with happy memories and carefree play.

Even I am complicit in this violent culture. I don’t watch violent movies, but not so much due to moral superiority, but the simple fact that the racket of gunfire on TV almost gives me a headache. (Several war movies are available with audio description, so I could follow these movies if I wanted to). I don’t play video games, but that could merely be because as far as I know, video games are entirely visual. But I love old country songs, especially the gunfighter ballads of artists like Marty Robins. They are beautiful musically, and the stories they tell are fun to listen to, and sing along with. I am not obsessed with true crime as some people are, but I do enjoy watching the occasional Dateline murder mystery. Of course, most adults who watch true crime shows or enjoy singing along to gunfighter ballads would never even think of committing an act of violence in real life. But as far back as August 2019 when I was inspired to reflect on what daily life might look like after the restoration,I started to wonder if we might look back on our former lives and shudder about how much time we spent being entertained by murder mysteries. This thought returned in my reflection on our country’s gun violence epidemic, and I have come to the conviction that our consumption of violence as entertainment devalues human life. I know that if someone in my family was murdered, I would be pretty upset if my family’s tragedy was made into a TV show that millions of people might enjoy cozy on the couch, maybe with a bowl of popcorn on a Friday night, enjoying the suspense as to who might have killed my family member, or whether the jury will find him guilty or not guilty. And when I am walking on the treadmill singing along to Marty Robins about the stranger with the big iron on his hip, it is all too easy to get lost in the music, Marty Robins’s rich voice and a joyful melody that evokes romanticized images of the wild west and forget that the song is about an outlaw coming to take the life of someone’s son, brother or father. Given the alarming increase in violence, and even the increasing global instability, Christians should take the lead in living radically, eschewing media that has a negative influence on the subconsciouses of people of all ages and backgrounds, media that associates violence with suspense, bravery, justice, honor, or anything other than the senseless taking of the life of someone’s son or daughter, brother or sister, mother or father.

Be assured readers that I fully intend to practice what I preach. Last night, I deleted two Marty Robins gunfighter ballads that came to mind right away, as well as some modern country songs depicting violence that I have enjoyed. These include “Goodbye Earl from the Dixie Chicks which narrates the story of two friends conspiring to kill an abusive husband and live happily ever after, as well as “Courtesy of the Red White and Blue” and “Beer for my Horses” from Toby Keith which both glorify violence and are also glaring examples of white American folk religion. I am already thinking of a few more songs that I will be deleting right away after I publish this. The only ballad I kept is a Johnny Cash song, “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town.” The song tells the story of Billy Joe, a restless young man who wants to leave the farm, but his mother pleads with him “don’t take your guns to town, son.” This plea is the refrain that haunts the entire song. He assures his mother that he is a man now, and rides into town giddy but also nervous. To calm himself, he enters a bar and orders his first strong liquor, but when another man in the bar laughs at him, he is filled with rage and reaches for one of his guns, but the stranger draws his gun faster and kills Billy Joe. The melody and tone of the song is somber. The instrumentation at the beginning and end of the song sounds like a funeral bell tolling. In short, the song does not glorify guns. It is a heartbreaking, cautionary tale.

Yes, this is radical, and I know some readers might understandably charge that I am going overboard. But the inspiration for this radical idea came from another brilliant quote from Dallas Willard later in his chapter on the power structures of this world. According to Dallas Willard, “The tyrants, satanic forces, and oppressive practices of this world play upon our “merely decent” lives as a master organist dominates his or her instrument but is wholly powerless without it” (Spirit of the Disciplines, Page 234). What I believe Dallas Willard is arguing is that while your average normal, decent person claims to abhor evil acts such as an elementary school shooting, these “mad individuals” are a product of our culture, and while education, or church attendance, or new laws may have a small degree of positive impact, we cannot truly get to the root of the causes of evil with superficial solutions that allow us to go on living our lives as we always have. The only effective treatment for the disease of evil in our world is character transformation. Of course, universal character transformation will not occur in this country because we are not (and never were) an exclusively Christian nation, and we certainly do not want to live in a man-made theocracy of forced conformity as history has proven this system comes with hypocrisy and evil of its own. (I will be elaborating more on this in the near future given current events). But true Christians can no longer afford to go to church one hour a week and give lip-service to our belief in Christ, and then come home and plunge right back into an angry culture of hate and division that glorifies violence, as too many Christians, especially white evangelicals do today. I believe Christians today could take the lead in bringing about significant positive change in our world, just as the first-century Christians did, but this can only happen if we live as Jesus commanded, in this world but not of this world. Dallas Willard is no longer living, but I get the sense that if he were alive to comment on current events, he would call for Christians to make this radical change of lifestyle.

Even if there is a widespread movement of radical character transformation led by Christians, the loss of innocence is likely here to stay. It breaks my heart that active shooter drills are standard practice in elementary school, and I cannot promise future sons, daughters, nieces or nephews that their elementary school is an impenetrable fortress. But it is my hope that I can at least tell them that we have made progress, that violence is not as prevalent as it used to be, that we are working toward a more perfect union, not in the nationalistic sense, but a more perfect union with Christ.

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Hello readers. I am sorry it has been so long since my last post. I really hoped to write something at least once a week now that I am on summer vacation, but somehow–I am still not entirely sure how–I irritated my sciatic nerve, and was in so much pain for a couple weeks, and sleepy due to a muscle relaxer an urgent care doctor prescribed, and the increased use of ibuprofen he recommended, that I didn’t feel like writing. I feel so much better now. I am almost back to my normal activity level although if I bend over too long or trip over something, I can feel the nerve throb a little. Mornings are also still a little humbling to the point that I find myself singing a line from a Garth Brooks song, “I’m much too young to feel this damn old” as the nerve is so stiff from sleeping all night, and possibly being a little dehydrated (which the doctor said causes muscles to contract) that I am limping for the first couple hours until the muscles have absorbed some ibuprofen and had time to wake up. But the doctor said given how large this nerve is, it takes a good month for such an injury to heal, and Thursday will be the one month mark.

In other news, I earned an 84% on my human dignity research paper, not the greatest grade, but not the worst either. But as I mentioned, this paper was personal for me, so the score doesn’t really matter to me. I am still waiting on the feedback, and once I receive the feedback, I still plan to share my essay here, but in the meantime, recent events have inspired me to contemplate another issue that I also think is relevant to the topic of human dignity. I wish I could have published this in a more timely fashion, as the Uvalde tragedy has already receded from the news cycle. But as I have discussed before, I like to put a lot of thought into my posts. I like to give my writing my best–as in, not making myself write when I am not feeling great unless I have to meet a school deadline–and especially regarding this subject, I wanted to make sure my post wasn’t a collection of partisan talking points, but a balanced and thoughtful commentary.

The personal conviction I defend in my research paper is unashamedly pro-life. But unfortunately, recent events have compelled me to re-iterate a position that I have mentioned frequently in this blog, which is that politics and true Christianity cannot mix. In other words, it has been disheartening to witness the same politicians who pass strict abortion laws to protect unborn children do nothing to protect children from being murdered at school because they are so beholden to the gun lobby. As numerous blog posts on Red Letter Christians have pointed out over the years, an authentic pro-life conviction would oppose not just abortion but unrestricted access to guns, (especially assault rifles which were originally intended only for battlefield settings), racist policies which have subjected many people of color to contaminated air and water, even cuts to medicaid and other social welfare programs that millions of children depend on for food, shelter and healthcare. A few years ago, an adamantly pro-life relative raised the argument that we might get to heaven and lament to God that we never found a cure for cancer, and God might say, “I created the person who would have found the cure, but you aborted them.” As hyperbolic and sensationalized as this argument is, it does have an element of truth. We will never know the potentially wonderful contributions aborted children might have brought to the world. But we will also never know what black children in Flint, Michigan could have achieved if their brains hadn’t been damaged from lead poisoning, or what poor children across all races could have achieved if they had access to proper nutrition, healthcare, housing and quality education. And we will never know what the children of Columbine, Parkland, Sandy Hook (and so many other schools I cannot even remember them all), and now Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas, could have achieved if they had not been murdered by disturbed individuals with no business holding guns, but who all purchased their guns legally.

As I have mentioned before, my parents did not believe in any kind of censorship. I was allowed to read whatever I wanted–I even read The Da Vinci Code in eighth grade–and I was never sent out of the room when a television show was prefaced with “viewer discretion is advised.” For the most part, I look back on this and recognize it as a beautiful privilege that I still thank my parents for, as I feel this exposure to the real world, and this intellectual freedom has made me more open-minded and prepared for the world than some of my sheltered, Christian peers. But I have light-heartedly told my parents that the one thing I might do differently is not let my children watch shows like America’s Most Wanted. The host of that show John Walsh, made it his life mission to help law enforcement track down dangerous criminals after his six-year-old son was kidnapped and murdered. To that end, the show would recount the crimes of dangerous fugitives, sometimes in graphic detail, even reenactments, give viewers pictures of the suspect and information on where and when he was last seen, and invite them to call an anonymous tip line if they have any information that might help police. The reenactments of crimes, especially when the victims were children were disturbing. Sure, I couldn’t see what was going on, but in college, I had a friend who said she found old-fashioned movies that didn’t depict murder in graphic detail but left the details up to the imagination scarier and thus more entertaining than modern movies. I don’t think I mentioned my experience watching America’s Most Wanted, but perhaps a similar principle applies, the difference of course being that I wouldn’t call my experience entertaining because the reenactments depicted real crimes. Most nights, I wasn’t afraid to go to bed after this show which aired at 9:00 every Saturday night because the crimes were often domestic violence, or retribution for a bad drug deal, horrible situations of course, but situations my child mind didn’t worry about because the monsters who committed these crimes would have no interest in coming for me. But every now and then, the show would feature criminals who kidnapped children or broke into people’s homes and murdered them just for the thrill of it. Knowing that there were people capable of such senseless evil in the world was terrifying, especially when John Walsh said, “he could be anywhere tonight.” Could he be in my closet? In the basement waiting for the family to go to sleep? My parents assured me that these crimes are extremely rare, and that coupled with the fact that our house is difficult to find even for bus drivers and repairmen given that we live i a somewhat secluded suburb, and the fact that a criminal would have a very difficult time kidnapping me since I was always holding onto the arm of a parent or older sibling when I left the house, all of whom were physically fit and would be able to protect me, meant I was usually able to put things into perspective and fall asleep quickly.

I was nine years old and in third grade when Columbine happened. I think my siblings were disturbed by it because instead of watching cartoons or Jeopardy as they usually did after school, I came in from the bus to hear the television tuned to the news. They must have heard about it at school, since two of my siblings were in high school, and my brother was in seventh grade and starting to think about high school. But I was able to cope by dismissing it as something that happens in the big scary high school. I didn’t have to think about high school for five years. Almost all of my peers were naturally respectful and kind, and much of the curriculum at Burleigh was devoted to life skills, including treating one another with respect. There were a couple bullies in the before school daycare I had to attend two days a week who did not apply these lessons, but they were the garden variety kind that stole toys from me and excluded me from games. I never feared being a victim of violence, even from them. It never even crossed my mind that a gunman from the outside could enter an elementary school. In my mind, Burleigh Elementary School was a fortress, a warm, safe brick building surrounded by a tall fence and filled with vigilant staff who took safety very seriously. Once in first or second grade, I heard a story on the news about a crime committed on Burleigh Road, but my parents explained that Burleigh Road is a long road, and the location of the crime was nowhere near Burleigh Elementary School. We had monthly fire drills, with each teacher meticulously counting to make sure we all made it out of the building, and we had an annual tornado drill. One day due to unusually fierce wind a few months before Columbine, the assistant principal announced that recess would be indoors out of an abundance of caution due to power lines located relatively close to the playground. When I was in elementary school, the idea of an active shooter drill was not even a concept in my imagination. In my child mind, and even in my young adult mind, elementary schools were sacrosanct, even for serial killers, and in the infinitesimally unlikely event that a gunman did take interest in Burleigh Elementary School, they could never penetrate the fortress. This innocence and sense of safety was of course shattered by the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012. I couldn’t find the words to blog about it then, but as I watched the news coverage of that horrific event, I found myself imagining myself as a first or second grader coming home from school, hearing of this event and being terrified to go back to school the following Monday because if such evil could take place at that elementary school, it could happen at Burleigh Elementary School. It was interesting listening to the advice of a child psychologist on how parents should respond if their elementary school-age children become aware of the Sandy Hook tragedy. The expert advised saying something to the effect of, “One very bad guy got into that elementary school, but police got him. You are safe.” This may have placated me enough to return to Burleigh Elementary School the following Monday morning, but I still think my innocence, my impression of Burleigh Elementary School as a sacrosanct, impenetrable fortress would have been shattered. Looking back on my childhood from an adult perspective, I realize with a cold chill that as safety-conscious as the staff at Burleigh Elementary School was, I think they had the same sense of innocence and invincibility that I felt. The idea of a gunman barging into an elementary school was just as unimaginable to the adults.

On another occasion when I was in second grade–it might have been my oldest brother’s Catholic confirmation–some members of the extended family gathered at our house and my big ears caught the adults in a conversation about guns. I don’t remember the exact context, but as an adult, I think I can reasonably infer that the conversation must have been around perplexity as to why there was more gun violence even in 1998 than when they were growing up. Anyway, I remember Mom saying, “everyone owned guns where I grew up. My dad owns guns.” This shocked me to the core. Papaw, my paternal grandpa who loved little children and looked forward to rocking me to sleep when I came to visit? Papaw who had more difficulty speaking because of Parkinsons but whom my mom said was always soft-spoken, whom she had never heard raise his voice? That Papaw owned guns? Given all of the stories of gun violence in the city that I picked up on the news, I thought only bad guys owned guns. I always felt completely safe at Granny and Papaw’s house, but now I wasn’t so sure. At the time, Mom consoled me by explaining that he never used them, except to go hunting occasionally. Furthermore, there was absolutely no chance that I would find them while playing and accidentally shoot myself or be shot by a cousin because he kept them so thoroughly hidden that she did not even know where they were. He also kept the bullets completely separate from the gun.

As I got older, I would learn that Papaw was a member of the NRA, but when Mom was growing up, the NRA was unrecognizable compared to what it is today. The NRA promoted the value of gun sports like hunting, but also took gun safety very seriously, even supporting gun regulation. It wasn’t until the 1980s that conservatives re-interpreted the second amendment as granting the absolute right of almost anyone to own any type of gun, when the wording of the second amendment suggests that the Founders’ intentions when drafting this amendment were far more narrow, only granting the right to keep and bear arms to the extent necessary for a “well regulated militia.” Like most men of his World War II generation, Papaw did not register his guns because in every country the Nazis occupied, they gained control partly by obtaining gun registration records and then going door-to-door confiscating all registered guns. But although that generation fiercely defended their right to bear arms, gun safety was baked into the culture. In addition to following all gun safety procedures, especially keeping the bullets completely separate from the gun, my mom recalls that when they were playing, they would get in trouble if they pointed a toy gun, or even a stick that they were pretending to be a gun at someone. They could point toy guns in the air and pretend to shoot space aliens or imaginary bad guys, but never each other. This rule surprised me when Mom first mentioned it, but it makes sense. Habits, thoughts and attitudes start to form at an early age. Of course, even most children who point a toy gun at their friend won’t grow up to kill with a real gun, and I am sure there are people who grew up with a strict culture of gun safety whose hearts turned to evil. I am not naive. I recognize that every generation of human history has been plagued by violence. But even if strict rules for children won’t ultimately change the human heart, I can appreciate the value of engraining in children that guns are serious business. All this is to say that as I have been reflecting on yet another elementary school shooting, I am beginning to come to the conclusion that guns in and of themselves are not the problem. The problem is a culture that glorifies violence, raises boys to feel ashamed if they express any emotion other than anger resulting in a lack of empathy which commonly leads to violence, and idolizes guns to the point that too many people treat real guns like toys.

Charleton Heston’s famous quote does have a grain of truth to it. “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” But because of our culture which has led to a nation with more guns than people, we do need to pass sensible gun control legislation because right now, guns are too accessible for people who want to kill other people, or themselves. (While this post, and the news cycle focuses on mass shootings, we should not overlook the fact that most gun deaths are suicides. According to a very compelling episode of The Bulwark I listened to recently which featured a former NRA lobbyist turned whistleblower, suicide is an impulsive decision, so experts believe many people who commit suicide with a gun may not have done so if guns were not so readily available.) I am sure Papaw would have supported a ban on assault weapons, weapons originally intended for the battlefield setting, red flag laws, background checks and a waiting period before someone can purchase a gun. Another reform I think would be valuable which gets less media attention is a requirement that all gun owners must complete an in-person gun safety course, pass a test and obtain a license. The license could be permanently revoked if it can be proven that the license holder knowingly gave a gun to someone who did not have a license and the gun was used in a crime, or that the license holder did not follow proper protocol securely storing a gun that was then stolen and used in a crime. If such a law were implemented, I recognize that it could seem inconvenient and unnecessary for people like Papaw who grew up in rural Kentucky, and learned from responsible relatives how to handle guns safely from a young age, as guns were necessary to hunt and protect livestock from predators. But as gentle and compassionate as Papaw was, he would have been heartbroken by today’s gun violence epidemic, especially the elementary school shootings, so I think he would have considered the inconvenience a small price to pay. After all, you have to go through training, pass a test and get a license to drive a motorized vehicle, which can become a deadly weapon if operated negligently. I don’t think it is at all unreasonable to implement similar requirements to own a product specifically designed to be a deadly weapon. I can understand how mandatory gun buy-back would feel threatening, even to responsible gun owners, but I think more voluntary gun buy-back initiatives (maybe with a bonus incentive for every assault rifle turned in) could potentially avert tragedy by encouraging relatives of people at risk of harming themselves or others to dispose of their guns, potentially averting many tragedies by getting at least a few guns off the streets. I personally am inspired by the work of organizations like Presbyterian Peace Fellowship who take literally the words of Isaiah 2:4 where it is prophesied that in the last days, people will “beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks” by melting down guns that people surrender and turning them into garden tools.

Laws are important in our fallen world to maintain order, and in fact, Christians have a duty to submit to all laws that do not conflict with God’s laws because “the authorities that exist are established by God” (Romans 13:1). The passage and subsequent enforcement of laws are a necessary first step in restraining our violent human nature. Death by any weapon would be equally tragic for the families affected, but if we could at least ban assault weapons and get as many of them as possible off the streets via buy-back programs, forcing a potential shooter to go with a less “efficient” weapon, the death toll would not be as horrific by the time law enforcement arrived, and for survivors, the wounds would not be as grievous. But as I have discussed before, laws alone cannot change the world. Neither, by the way, would equipping more “good guys with guns.” In his book “The Spirit of the Disciplines” which I read in my spiritual formation class last year, Dallas Willard has an excellent chapter on the disciplines and power structures of this world. He opens this chapter with a quote from Leo Tolstoy which I believe is very appropriate for our time. According to Tolstoy, “men are so accustomed to establish and defend their existence by violence, by bayonets, bullets, prisons, and gallows, that it seems to them as if such an arrangement of life were not only normal, but were the only one possible. Yet it is just this arrangement and maintenance of the commonwealth by violence, that does most to hinder people from comprehending the causes of their sufferings, and consequently from being able to establish a true order.” In other words, I think if Tolstoy were alive today to weigh in on our gun violence problem, he would view ideas like arming teachers as well-intentioned perhaps, but woefully misguided and unimaginative. Rather than succumbing to hopelessness, implicitly accepting bad guys with guns as an inevitable reality that can only be mitigated by more violence from good guys with guns, Christians ought instead to be at the forefront of solutions that address the root causes of violence. For example, it almost always comes to light that the young men who commit school shootings were bullied or felt marginalized as children. Perhaps some of the time spent preparing for standardized tests could instead be devoted to discussing the importance of values like empathy, kindness, inclusion, accepting everyone as they are. Perhaps there could be classes or camps specifically for boys to reimagine masculinity, allow and encourage boys to express a full range of emotions and learn constructive ways to manage negative emotions before they fester and lead to violent outbursts of anger. Of course, such solutions would not eliminate violence completely. Sociopaths prove that empathy cannot be taught, and I am not so naive as to think we can eradicate evil in this world with empathy lessons when Jesus said that wickedness will persist until the end of the age (Matthew 24:6-13). But I believe such measures could reduce the prevalence of gun violence. But more important than the statistics, such measures could potentially rescue men who could have easily gone down a path of violence and show them a better way. This would go much further toward a vision of true peace that all Christians should long for than succumbing to a superficial peace that relies on good guys with guns.

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Well readers, as usual, the semester kept me so busy that I wasn't able to write here. But overall, it was a successful semester. This past Monday was my first full day of summer vacation! My Systematic Theology professor gave us until this upcoming Saturday to submit the final research paper, but I was so close to having it finished this past Saturday that I decided to stay up until 1am Sunday morning to just finish it! The reason it took me so long is that the paper required footnotes, and unfortunately the BrailleNote uses a simplified version of Microsoft Word that does not delineate pages or have a feature to insert footnotes, so I have to use the iPad where it is harder to "see" what I am doing. Only after I meticulously typed all 28 footnotes, it occurred to me that the paper was only 8 pages. Given that my essay came to 3,300 words, it seemed like it should have been at least 10 pages. The paper was required to be between 10 and 12 pages. Sure enough when I checked my BrailleNote, I found that for some reason, many paragraphs were not double-spaced, even though I thought the default setting of the document was double-spaced. I corrected the paragraphs, but then realized I would have to re-type the footnotes. Otherwise the paper would look sloppy as the footnotes wouldn't match up at all to the pages. I had worked so hard, and was so proud of this paper that I knew my conscience would bother me if I knowingly turned in a sloppy-looking paper, and as I have been told in other contexts, like it or not, it is a visual world, and no matter how intelligent and accomplished you are otherwise, a sloppy visual presentation (such as leaving the house having made no effort to comb your hair) is the only thing people will notice. I didn't want my paper to be the equivalent of that, with a sloppy appearance distracting the professor from the message. But I persevered, and when all was said and done, the paper came to 12 pages.

I actually plan to share this research paper in my next post because for me, the research paper wasn't just an assignment to complete, but something that became personal for me and kind of wrote itself. The topic I chose for the paper was the biblical perspective of human dignity. Just as I was starting to do my research for this paper, the leak of the Supreme Court draft opinion signalling the possible overturn of Roe v. Wade brought the abortion debate to the forefront of the news cycle again, and then I came across a shocking article about how ever since 2004 when Denmark started offering universal prenatal screening for Down syndrome, 95 percent of women that receive a positive test result terminate the pregnancy. These events combined to inspire me. After submitting the paper, it occurred to me that I might receive a lower grade for not exploring the topic in broader terms, as the textbook reading related to biblical anthropology discussed human dignity regarding all races, even unmarried people who often feel excluded by churches whose ministry priorities unwittingly perpetuate a one-size-fits-all Christian life where the assumed norm is to get married and start a family. My paper focused on abortion and physician-assisted suicide--I found some disturbing information on that subject too--and argued that the Bible commands respect at the very beginning, and the end of human life. But the wonderful thing about seminary school professors, at least at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School is that while professors set high academic expectations, they also encourage an integrated mindset. In other words, they encourage students not to compartmentalize their lives by turning off their brains during worship and personal devotional time, or by being so academically oriented that they fill their minds with knowledge but loose all sense of personal reverence. In fact, God gave us brains precisely because he intended for us to use them, so ideally, our academic studies should themselves be thought of as worship. Given this culture, I have been shown grace on other assignments when the professor could tell the subject was personal for me, even if it strayed slightly from the parameters of the assignment. Regardless of my grade, I plan to share this essay, but I thought I would wait until I received the grade and read the professor's feedback--this particular professor provides wonderful, detailed feedback--as this theology course has really been akin to an intense workout for my brain, forcing me to think in ways I have never thought before, and when it comes to issues as serious as abortion and physician-assisted suicide, I want to make sure my thinking is on the right track before sharing it with you readers.

Last semester, I took a Biblical Theology course. Although preparing for the test was brutal, requiring a lot of memorization, not so much of specific Bible verses but the chronology of the Bible as a whole so that I could trace various themes from their first appearance in the Old Testament through their full revelation in the New Testament, I did really well in this course because it was pretty straight-forward. Though some of the reading involved learning about the history of biblical interpretation and how it evolved, most of the time, the only book we interacted with was the Bible itself because the primary purpose of the course was just appreciating how various themes unfold as the Bible progresses. But Systematic Theology involves a lot more interaction with outside authorities. When in doubt, the final authority is still the Bible, but the Bible is actually analogous to the U.S. Constitution. As one of my Paralegal professors pointed out in 2014, the U.S. Constitution is a relatively short document, and yet thousands of volumes have been written questioning how to interpret it. This is partly because the U.S. Constitution was written 240 years ago in a different cultural context, and as such, the Constitution could not possibly foresee every situation that would arise in real life. This is true to an even greater extent for the Bible which was written thousands of years ago over the course of multiple cultural contexts: the Old Testament was written in the ancient Near East and the New Testament was written during the Roman empire. Thus the methodology behind Systematic Theology involves not merely reading the Bible, but weighing evidence from Scripture, and studying the insights of well-respected theologians including but not limited to Augustine and Aquinas (first few centuries after Christ) Luther and Calvin (middle ages) Karl Barth and Rudolf Bultmann (modern theologians). For example, as a preview to my research paper, one argument I address is that the Bible does not conclusively state that God considers a fetus to be a person, but passages such as Exodus 21:22-25 or Hebrews 7:9-10 have led theologians to advocate a conservative course of action given how seriously God condemns murder.

I am so glad that I took this course, as it has enriched my own faith, and given me tools to engage more thoughtfully with people who don't understand/believe in concepts like the Trinity or predestination. But I am also glad I waited until my second year of seminary school when my brain had recovered from the atrophy caused by working a corporate job and reading nothing but magazine articles with simple sentences for five years. As it was, I still couldn't fully wrap my mind around some of the abstract concepts covered in this course, as the feedback on my first two research papers can attest. But although this class made my head hurt, it was a good kind of pain, and in fact, even though I technically have earned all the required credits for my certificate in Christian studies, I am taking the sequel to this course in the Fall.

In addition to Systematic Theology, I also took a course on American Church History. Unfortunately, as a practical matter, history isn't the most blind-friendly field to go into, as most primary sources composed before the computer age are preserved as scanned images which proved super-annoying to read as my KNFB reader app could not correctly recognize many letters. (I found out during one Zoom session that this wasn't the result of an inferior app, but was because the images were grainy even for my sighted classmates.) On a few occasions, I was able to find more readable versions of these documents online, or on Bookshare, but oftentimes, I couldn't and so would have to go through the document once to correct as many words as I could, and then read it again to actually absorb the content. But my persistence paid off and I learned a lot.

In future posts, I look forward to sharing some specific tidbits of insight I gained about this course relevant to current events. But for now as an overview, I will say that I vividly remember a day in fifth grade when I was frustrated and did not feel like doing my Social Studies homework. That day I asked my sister, a junior in high school at the time why I had to study history. My sister replied with the commonly asserted maxim that "those who fail to study history are condemned to repeat it." Fortunately by the time I reached high school, I had matured and actually found U.S. history very interesting, but I still didn't quite understand this maxim. I couldn't help noticing irony in the fact that as I studied the catastrophic failure of the Vietnam war, our country was mired in Iraq and Afghanistan. When I got to college and took another history course my freshman year, irony occurred to me once again as we studied the corporate greed that led to the Great Depression just as in real time, the country was entering into the Great Recession. Though ignorance about history is certainly a factor in some cases (as in certain celebrities who choose to enter Politics), John Fea points out in the introduction of his book "Was America Founded as a Christian Nation?" that history is complex, and the way every historic event unfolds is influenced by prior historic events. So although in some ways the war in Vietnam feels similar to the war in Iraq, the responsible historian recognizes the complexity of the past and tries to be impartial. But I personally have come to believe through this course, but also in reflecting on my previous study of the history of ancient Israel, the Roman empire, and Christian missionary outreach that history is cyclical, not in the pagan sense of an infinite cycle that ultimately has no meaning, but in the sense that in our fallen state, we seldom seem to learn from our mistakes, and usually let personal or national self-interest take precedence over doing what is right. Fortunately, God is well-aware of this shortcoming in our nature, and therefore will one day break the cycle, bring an end to human history as it currently is and redeem all of creation. But if I ever had the opportunity to mentor a younger student who questions the necessity of studying history, I would explain that when we study history, we have a much better sense of our identity and the factors that shaped it long before we were even a thought. And while much of the power to control the course of history is out of our control, as we are only a drop in the ocean of the billions of people in this world, and most of us will never be in positions of power that shape history, an understanding of the past positions us better to be on the right side of history as we go about our ordinary lives. For example, if we are familiar with our country's dark history of racism, we are better able to recognize how as Jemar Tisby states, racism has not gone away. It has just adapted. This positions us better to recognize racism when political candidates campaign on the promise of restoring "law and order" or when a local suburban skating rink decides to ban kids from Milwaukee. A white alderman from Milwaukee confirmed and exposed the coded racism behind this policy when he brought his child to the rink and had no trouble getting in. So I suppose this maxim really is accurate in the sense that if we understand the dark parts of our history, we really can play a small, but significant (especially to God) part in ensuring it is not repeated.

In a future post, I will share some other things that have been going on in my life besides school work. But I don't want to ruin the academic vibe of this post by launching into other topics. So for now I will close by saying that although I feel a little fried and am glad to be on summer break, and although sometimes I have anxiety about my future financial security, I cannot tell you how blessed I feel that I am able to study and reflect on these academic subjects when so many people (many far smarter than me) have life circumstances that do not facilitate this privilege. Most days, I also still have this wonderful, God-given sense that resigning from my paralegal job at the start of the pandemic and taking seminary courses is what God wanted me to do. I have no idea what my future holds beyond Fall 2022, and I will be honest and say I hate uncertainty. Just as I hate going to new restaurants if I don't know exactly what I will order well in advance, sometimes it drives me crazy that I don't have a life plan either. But perhaps in regard to both scenarios, God is testing me, asking me to be patient and have trust that all will work out according to his plan, and for my good.

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As a child, I loved Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books about her life as a pioneer living on the prairie. In the summer of 2010, after a particularly stressful semester of college, I even re-read them. After reading scholarly articles and textbooks until my head hurt, there was something comforting about returning to a childhood favorite, and reading them from an adult perspective, I also noticed things that I had never paid attention to as a child. Today I want to talk about a passage I found particularly poignant as an adult, and which I found myself thinking about again in the midst of this coronavirus pandemic.

The passage is found in The Long Winter, the book that chronicles the brutal winter of 1877 when the family almost starved to death and had to resort to twisting hay into sticks for firewood because they had moved into town and became dependent on the train for food and supplies. But the train could not reach them for months due to continuous, relentless snow storms. One warm, sunny autumn day before that brutal winter, Laura is helping Pa bail hay, and thinks he missed a haycock, but Pa tells her that is actually a muskrat house. This is the first foreshadowing of the brutal winter to come as Pa shakes his head and says he had never seen a muskrat house with walls that thick. The thicker muskrats build the walls of their houses, the colder winter will be.

Laura who would have been nine or ten years old at the time, asks Pa how the muskrats know, to which he responds “God tells them somehow, I suppose.” Then Laura asks why God doesn’t tell us these things, to which Pa says it is because we are not animals. We are humans, and just as the Declaration of Independence states, God created humans to be free, which means we get to do as we please, but it also means we have to take care of ourselves.

Religion does not play an overt role in these books, partly because living away from civilization as they did for many years, it wasn’t always possible to attend a formal church regularly. But the family observed the Sabbath, which is discussed in Little House in the Big Woods, and throughout all the books, the importance of Christian principles like hard work and integrity are emphasized. When they fell on hard times, they recognized and gave glory to God for small miracles like a visit from a generous stranger which allowed them to get by another day, survive another season.

“I thought God takes care of us,” Laura says.

“He does,” Pa said, “so far as we do what’s right. And He gives us a conscience and brains to know what’s right. But He leaves it to us to do as we please. That’s the difference between us and everything else in creation.”

I have often found that the best Christian literature isn’t what is marketed as Christian literature. I have nothing against Christian literature. In fact, in high school I was absolutely hooked on the Left Behind series, a fictional depiction of what the end times might look like. This series definitely had the impact its two authors, both pastors were hoping for, causing myself and millions of others to think more seriously about our Christian faith. In this series, characters quoted scripture often in conversation, especially with nonbelievers. But thinking about this series as an adult, I can understand why the heavy-handed, agenda-driven manner in which scripture was woven into the story might turn some people off. Pa doesn’t quote scripture, but in this poignant and natural conversation with Laura, he illustrates multiple Christian principle so relevant to the crisis we are living through right now. We are not animals. We are humans, created in God’s image. Unlike animals where God directs every detail of their lives via the natural instincts He plants in them, right down to the type of house muskrats build, humans are given free will to do as we please. God does care for us to an extent, but He also expects us to use the brains and conscience He has given us to care for ourselves.

This passage first came to mind Friday March 13, the day after the surreal experience of learning that pretty much every aspect of daily life would be cancelled indefinitely. Every Friday on this program, New York Times columnist David Brooks and syndicated columnist Mark Shields analyze the news of that week. That day, David Brooks observed that the 1918 flu left no lasting impact on our culture, and even those who survived that pandemic really didn’t talk about it. He found that the reason people didn’t talk about it was because they were ashamed of the people they became during the pandemic, and he warned we might not like the people we become either. In an editorial that gave me chills, David Brooks wrote about how pandemics kill compassion. During the plague that struck Europe during the middle ages, infected people were permanently sealed into their houses and just abandoned to die. In other pandemics through history, people were shipped off to hospitals on remote islands where most died. In 1918, women whose hearts would normally be moved to help children in need refused to step forward and care for children whose parents were sick, causing some to die of starvation because there was no one to provide for them. Given the fear and panic pandemics trigger, it is all too easy to think only of our survival, to forget about compassion and conscience, or put another way, to let animal instincts take over.

In fairness to people of ancient times, they did not have the scientific understanding of viruses we have today. In fact they wouldn’t have even had the equipment to know that their illnesses were caused by a virus, so it is understandable why they would have resorted to superstition, such as believing that afflicted people were cursed by God. Although every virus behaves differently, meaning scientists are learning as we go with this coronavirus, much of the fear of ancient peoples has been mitigated by the scientific advances we have made. We can identify the virus causing the illnesses, and we know how to reduce risk of contracting the virus by washing our hands and hard surfaces, practicing social distancing and wearing personal protective equipment. (Of course, whether personal protective equipment is available is another matter.) We know how to quarantine people while still treating them with compassion and providing for their needs.

In every pandemic David Brooks cited throughout history, there were people who resisted falling into animal instincts, who reflected God’s image and treated the sick with compassion. In this pandemic too, there have been plenty of incredible examples of humanity and compassion, from the healthcare workers on the front lines, but also from ordinary citizens donating personal protective equipment, caring for the children of healthcare workers, even serving free breakfast and lunch to children who normally qualify for free meals at school which is now closed. And yet for some people, David Brooks was right. When they look back on this pandemic, they may not like the people they became.

Despite our scientific advances with regard to viruses, fear is still evident in this present pandemic. I speculate that although we have vanquished superstition regarding viruses, our fear is now fueled by 24/7 media. Although hoarding is an animal behavior, I can understand the anxiety that 24/7 news coverage of the virus could trigger that would lead people to hoard N95 masks needed by health care providers, as well as hand sanitizer, even toilet paper. I didn’t feel compelled to hoard face masks or hand sanitizer, but on March 13 when I realized this quarantine was for real, I started getting anxious about running out of gluten free, healthy food. On March 14, I ordered two cases of dried beans. (I was so tempted to order four, or six, or ten cases, but since I really am trying to work on trusting God to provide, I resisted this temptation and only bought two cases, still enough to last me about three months). I panicked a little when for some reason, Bob’s Red Mill, the site where I usually order beans wouldn’t work for me, but I was able to buy them at Eden Foods which actually gave me a larger quantity than I would have gotten from Bob’s Red Mill, so given the unprecedented quarantine we were about to embark on, I was actually glad the Bob’s Red Mill site didn’t work. But the next day when it occurred to me I should re-stock my Lundberg brown rice as well, as I had about a package and a half left. I like to eat it for breakfast sometimes, and also share it with my parents, so that could go fast. But when I went to Amazon where I usually ordered it, it was out of stock as was every other brand of brown rice I tried. Seeing the online equivalent of the bare grocery store shelves being reported on the news sent me into a bit of panic again, which didn’t fully subside until to my relief, I found brown rice at Meijer’s a couple weeks later. So while we all should work on trusting God to provide, anxiety that leads to hoarding is behavior I understand. What I don’t understand is the callous remarks a small but vocal minority have made about the most vulnerable among us, rhetoric I never thought I would hear in this country in the 21st century.

These days, the hysteria isn’t as much over the virus itself, but the economic devastation it has caused. In late February or early March when people were starting to hoard things like hand sanitizer, but the coronavirus still seemed far away, I read a compelling Huffington Post essay written by someone who was immunosuppressed and also has other disabilities. She was troubled by the fact that media coverage of the virus, in an effort to prevent panic, kept emphasizing that the virus is dangerous “only” for the elderly, the immunosuppressed or those with underlying medical conditions. The writer of this essay felt as though in using this language, the media failed to consider that people in these vulnerable categories would hear this rhetoric, and that this is just the latest of a long history of behaviors with the underlying attitude that vulnerable populations, including people with disabilities are disposable. I am blessed because although I have encountered a little bit of discrimination from people ignorant of the capabilities of blind people, overall I have always been surrounded by people with high expectations for me who were more than willing to accommodate me. I have never gotten the vibe that people think I am disposable, so at first, even after reading this essay, I gave the media the benefit of the doubt when they used such language. I even used it a little myself when trying to put my family at ease when the pandemic was starting to get serious and I was still going to work, until my parents reminded me that because of my underlying pituitary damage, I may be more vulnerable than I thought. But then a few weeks later, I read this article written by Shai Held, a rabbi shocked at the cruelty being displayed in some circles toward the elderly. Some dress up their statements about the elderly with moral indignation, first dehumanizing them by lumping them together as a faceless mass, rather than treating them as individuals with their own distinct faces and voices, hopes and dreams, and then saying that “the elderly” are getting what they deserve if they die of COVID-19 because of the way they have denied climate change, subjecting future generations to hardships they won’t have to deal with themselves. But beyond that, this rabbi lamented that we live in a culture that puts too much emphasis on productivity, economic worth.

“If there is one thing we ought to teach our children,” he wrote, “it is that our worth as human beings does not depend on or derive from what we do or accomplish or produce; we are, each one of us, infinitely valuable just because we are created in the image of God. We mattered before we were old enough to be economically productive, and we will go on mattering even after we cease to be economically productive.” People with disabilities were beyond the scope of this rabbi’s editorial, but I have no doubt he would also say that people with disabilities or underlying medical conditions that may limit their economic productivity, or preclude them from being economically productive at all, also matter.

Even after reading this article, I wanted to believe this Rabbi just had the misfortune of interacting with a couple extreme outliers, that our society didn’t really measure the value of human lives on the basis of age or economic productivity. And then over the course of just 24 hours, I saw this article in which the lieutenant governor of Texas, said he thought that many elderly people would be willing to die to preserve the economy for their grandchildren, and this article talking about how disability advocacy groups were filing a lawsuit over guidelines released for hospitals that in the event of a shortage of ventilators that required rationing care, ventilators should be given to younger, healthier people. A chill swept down my spine as I read this article and realized that due to my blindness and other medical issues, combined with the fact that my family who would normally advocate for me would not be able to accompany me, this country that I always thought valued people like me might now determine I am not worth saving.

That summer of 2010, shortly after reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder series, a duck who only had one leg showed up in our garden and chose our garden to lay her eggs. Mom scrapped plans to plant in that area so as not to disturb her. For weeks, she diligently sat on her eggs. My heart was touched by this duck, and I had visions of writing a children’s book about this handicapped duck overcoming adversity and making her way in the world. Our whole family was excited about the prospect of baby ducks. But then one morning, we woke up to find the eggs abandoned, the mother duck nowhere to be found. The duck never returned, and her eggs never hatched. We never found out for sure what happened to her, but my dad said he had seen a fox prowling around, so we are pretty sure the fox had her for breakfast. We were all a little sad, but we recognized that in the wild, that’s the way it is. Animals don’t have eternal souls, and are not created in God’s image. They live only by animal instincts, under which the survival and health of the herd is all that matters. If a puppy is born with a birth defect, the mother pushes him aside and does not feed him because her instincts tell her he wouldn’t survive long anyway. Animals that are sick or injured, or who cannot keep up with the herd are eaten. That’s just the way it is.

But as Pa said so eloquently, we are not animals. We are humans, and as humans with eternal souls, created in God’s image and given free will and a conscience, we are supposed to live by higher principles in which all lives have value. My hope is that long-term, people who have made callous statements regarding vulnerable populations will repent and that our society will emerge from this pandemic with a deeper respect for all lives, and that short-term, we will all, especially political leaders who purport to be Christian, will stop pushing to re-open the economy when COVID-19 cases are still rising. Ideally, the wealthiest country in the world should have been better prepared for a pandemic, with a much better stockpile of hospital beds, ventilators and personal protective equipment. But that aside, given reality as it is, as humans, we must continue social distancing for as long as recommended by health experts, so that doctors aren’t forced to make decisions only animals should have to make.

I understand the anxiety people are having about the economy. In fact, I am worried about my generation’s future economic security, as for millennials like me, this is our second major economic downturn, when many of us never fully recovered from the first one. We are earning much less than previous generations were earning at our age. I have heard the argument that we should re-open the economy because the effects of poverty will kill more people than the virus. But again I argue, we are not animals. We are humans. Instead of accepting that no matter what, people are going to die, let’s stay home for as long as it takes to contain the virus and protect the vulnerable, and then when it is safe to re-open the economy, we can enact reforms that distribute wealth more fairly and ensure all have access to necessities like food and healthcare. We are not animals. We are humans. We don’t have to choose whether we sacrifice lives to the virus or the economy. With the brains and conscience God gave us, I think we can figure out how to ensure that vulnerable populations survive the virus, and the economic downturn.

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One day the summer before last, an animal died in our yard, and my mom noticed some birds, which we later learned were turkey buzzards, had gathered around it for a feast. That afternoon, my parents, and even a family friend who dropped by, watched in morbid fascination as the birds feasted, even marveling at the clear presence of a pecking order as one bird pushed others out of the way to get the best morsels for himself. I too felt a sense of morbid fascination as they described what was going on. Of course, our slight pity for the way this poor dead animal was being treated is a human projection: the buzzards were merely obeying an innate instinct to serve as nature's cleanup crew. They do not possess free will and the human concept of morality is incomprehensible to them. This memory came back to me as Holy Week dawned, and with it an inspiration to make my case for Christ. Stick with me. I promise I will connect the dots.

One day when I was working at the Social Security disability law firm, a coworker saw Gilbert sleeping contentedly at my feet and said, "You know, if I am reincarnated, I want to come back as a pampered dog." I laughed and may have even said something like "I hear you." It was meant as lighthearted banter. But in all seriousness, we should all consider it an incredible privilege to be human. When I was in college, I read part of a book written by the Dalai Lama for an intercultural communication course, and while much of his philosophies were over my head, one basic principle he stated that stuck with me is that humans are the highest form of life, and as such, even humans born into the most disadvantaged circumstances have already hit the cosmic jackpot simply for getting to be human.

Although Gilbert lived, and my cat Aslan continues to live a pampered life, by human standards their lives are actually quite bleak. Sure, it is tempting for humans to envy their lives of leisure, inhaling food they didn't have to hunt for, playing fetch in the yard or chasing a cat toy, activating their innate hunting instinct just for fun rather than survival, spending long winter afternoons sleeping in front of a sunny window while us humans have to work. But they also will never know, cannot even comprehend the pleasure of reading an inspiring or thought-provoking book, gathering to make or listen to beautiful music, engaging in complex discussions with family or friends about politics, philosophy, our hopes and dreams for the future. In fact, they don't even understand concepts like past or future. Research on animal behavior has shown that if you come home from work and observe that your dog, at some point earlier that day had gotten into the trash and made a huge mess but is now sleeping contentedly in the sun, it is actually cruel to yell at them because they have no long-term memory, and thus don't understand why you are mad at them. You have to catch them in the act. When I was in high school, my oldest brother moved back home for a couple years to save money, which also meant his incredibly intelligent dog Mojo lived with us. Even when my brother came home from work, Mojo bonded with us, so when my brother moved away, we were dismayed, although in retrospect we should not have been, about how eagerly he jumped into my brother's car, tail wagging when it was time to say goodbye. He didn't realize that this was not just another car ride, that he was moving far away and that my parents wouldn't see him for years, and I would never see him again. If animals have no conception of past or future, they also most likely do not contemplate their eventual death, let alone an afterlife.

Our closest evolutionary cousins, monkeys, are certainly worthy of our admiration and respect. One of my favorite books I read as a child was The Chimpanzees I Love, written by Jane Goodall, who used her observation of chimpanzees to raise awareness of their intelligence and emotional complexity in hopes of ending their abuse and exploitation by zookeepers and researchers. But many aspects of their behavior, from their aggression toward chimpanzees from other herds, to courtship rituals based on displays of dominance rather than genuine love and connection, and the fact that mother chimpanzees have to protect their babies from other male chimpanzees even within their own pack demonstrates that at their heart chimpanzees are still firmly within the "animal" category. All this is to say you don't even have to touch a religious text to see that there is something unique, something special about humans that even our closest evolutionary cousins don't even come close to. The seeds of this line of thought were planted at the beginning of the pandemic when I reflected on how we should fully lean into our uniqueness as humans, demonstrate compassion for the vulnerable, as opposed to the animal realm where instinct dictates that the weak be eaten by the strong, as illustrated by the one-legged duck who sat on eggs in our garden for awhile but was eaten by a fox. But my seminary education clarified these thoughts. The reason I believe in Christ, and especially the Easter story is that Christianity, far better than any other religion or philosophy solves the puzzle. It explains what makes us unique, and far superior to all other animals, and if more of us actually obeyed the teachings of Christ, and believed in his future promises, I think the argument raised by Atheists like Richard Dawkins that God most likely does not exist, and humans are nothing more than highly evolved animals would collapse, and our reverence and appreciation of the incredible cosmic jackpot we have won would be so intense that it wouldn't even cross our mind to dream of reincarnation as a pampered pet.

To inform my thinking for this blog, I decided last week that it was time to be brave and read something from Richard Dawkins. The teacher for Tough Questions, an apologetics class I took at my church talked about him a lot, and even encouraged us to prayerfully read what he has to say. After all, if you never allow your convictions to be questioned, how can you be sure that you are confident, secure in your faith? I started the book Wednesday of Holy Week (April 5), and am only on chapter 3. His arguments are very hard to follow in my opinion, and it was difficult to concentrate long because I felt as though my mind was being tied up in knots. So far, I concur with the assessment of my Tough Questions teacher who liked to say that more mental gymnastics is required to defend the belief that God does not exist, than is required to believe that he does. I will write a final assessment here once I finish the book. But two themes that Dawkins frequently likes to return to are the idea that the God of the major judeo-Christian religions is a jealous, vengeful God who champions slavery, war and genocide, and that the world would be far better off without religion and all of the violence it has caused throughout human history and even still to this day. These are both tired arguments that I have heard from other Atheists as well. It did come as a shock the first time I attempted to read the Bible in high school and only got as far as Exodus partly because I was shocked by the level of violence, deceit, polygamy, incest and general family dysfunction even among God's chosen people which he did not condemn, not to mention the brutal for our time laws requiring that those who commit adultery be stoned and such. But Atheists fail to study Scripture in an open-minded nuanced way. I don't want to distract from the train of thought for this post, but I will elaborate more on this in my final assessment. As for the second theme, Dawkins again paints all religion with a broad brush, failing to appreciate for example that the evil committed by Christians from the Crusades to today's epidemic of Christian Nationalism is not a reflection of Christianity itself, but the failure of people who claim to be Christians to actually live by the teachings of Christ.

From ancient times long before Christ, I suspect humans have always had a vague awareness that we are unique, superior to all other animals. Long before Moses wrote the book of Genesis, humans instinctively set about establishing dominion over the earth and subduing it. We figured out how to harness fire for cooking food, keeping warm and managing forests. We built cities with elaborate architecture, and boats to traverse bodies of water. We even figured out how to domesticate and train animals to assist us. We had a vague sense of the existence of higher powers, but we lost sight of the one true God and in the ancient near east, we created our own myths of gods who were powerful but not loving. They were jealous, capricious and petty, and when they fought amongst themselves, humans would be caught in the middle. Furthermore, they created humans to be their slaves, performing the menial labor on earth that they didn't want to do. So when misfortune came, people feared it was because they had displeased the gods and they would offer sacrifices, sometimes even child sacrifices, to appease them. Though religions were very localized among tribes, all of them shared a universal sense of an afterlife in which we would somehow be held accountable for our conduct in this life, although ancient Near East concept of the afterlife I read about were pretty depressing too. We also had a universal sense that human life, at least for people in our tribe was sacred, and thus all tribes had customs that honored the dead, burying them in tombs or at sea in a respectful manner rather than just leaving them out for the turkey buzzards.

In one sense, people should have known right from wrong, especially when it came to the practice of child sacrifices because of God's general revelation to all of humanity through our conscience which animals do not possess, at least not to the same degree. But I can kind of understand how their conscience could have been drowned out by hopelessness. If the gods they created didn't value them or love them, I can understand why they may not know how to value one another. If the afterlife, even for the righteous meant eternity in a dark underworld, what incentive was there to live righteously?

And then came Judaism, when the true God revealed himself to Abraham, then Isaac and Jacob. He declared that the day he created humanity was "very good", and that he did not create humans to be slaves, but to be co-rulers with Him on earth. He did not choose Abraham and his descendants because they were any more righteous than anyone else, but he showed grace to them and set them apart in the hope that they would learn to live righteously and be a blessing to all nations. In this way, God would eventually reveal himself to all nations on earth, and restore the good creation he intended before the Fall.

But the Israelites failed to obey the righteous commandments God had given them, and in fact were largely indistinguishable from the wicked Pagan culture that surrounded them, so God had to discipline them by banishing them from the Promise Land. The prophets spoke of a coming messiah who would bring peace and restoration, and who would transform their hearts, but they didn't fully understand this prophecy, and by the time Christ came, they had assimilated with the Roman empire, which one could fairly describe as animalistic in conduct. Men ruled over their households, and could beat or kill their own wives, slaves or children for any reason. Babies born with deformities were commonly "exposed" (abandoned to die), and for entertainment, they gathered in stadiums to watch men, who were typically escaped slaves or political prisoners, fight to the death with wild animals. Wealth was inherited, with virtually no path to upward mobility, and there were no safety nets for orphans, widows, people with disabilities or the poor. Even worse, Roman citizens (men) of high status felt free to sexually exploit those of lower status. Religious leaders still enforced God's laws, but they added so much legalism that the spirit of these laws was drowned out. Into this wicked empire, Christ came.

If Christ hadn't come, Atheists would have a valid point in arguing that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob was just another god imagined by a backwater ancient tribe. But I believe Christ's arrival proved once and for all that this God is the one true God because while all of the other ancient Pagan gods are remembered only by artifacts like ancient tablets excavated by archeologists and preserved in museums, the three religions that can be traced back to the god of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (Judaism, Christianity and Islam) still endure today, and the one that has transformed the world the most is Christianity.

This is a good time for a disclaimer: antisemitism and islamophobia are despicable, especially when perpetrated by supposed Christians. We should not condemn the oppression of Palestinians by right-wing Israelis, or Islamic extremism without also acknowledging the planks in our own eyes, extreme Christian nationalism. As my mom used to sing in Sunday school, they should "know that we are Christians by our love, by our love," and by showing them love, we may even be able to lead some to Christ. But I believe that belief in Christ (the true Christ, not the Christ of Christian nationalism) is what allows us to fully understand and lean into the privilege and responsibility we have as humans.

Christ treated all people--women, children, the poor, and especially people with disabilities--with radical dignity, and even explicitly stated that while he provides for the sparrow, we are far more valuable and he will provide all the more for us. Before Christ, hospitals and orphanages weren't even concepts in the imagination. All these institutions were started by Christians whose consciences were awakened by the teachings of Christ. It was a Christian from a province in Asia who visited Rome, witnessed a gladiator match and woke the conscience of Roman citizens by yelling out, "In Christ's name, stop!" My Tough Questions teacher also pointed out that to this day, you won't see people who follow religions based on good and bad karma coming to the rescue after natural disasters, or even ministering to their own vulnerable people because they believe such vulnerable people are suffering because they need to atone for conduct in a past life and it is not their place to interfere with this. But with all due respect, such a view is illogical because we have no memories of past lives. As such, when Christians minister to the physical needs of these people, and also share the gospel with them, which includes God's teaching that we only live once (in this world) and then face judgment, that in this Fallen world, suffering comes to both the righteous and the unrighteous, and thus we should leave judgment to God, many are comforted by the love and logic of these teachings and eagerly accept Christ. Is the love and compassion of even well-intentioned Christians what it should be? Absolutely not! I will be the first to admit that I revert to selfish, animalistic behavior sometimes. But if Christ hadn't come, this world would be a whole lot worse.

But Christ didn't just transform this world. With his resurrection, we now understand that our fear of death and hope for an afterlife isn't just the wishful thinking of highly evolved animals, but that we really were meant to enjoy eternal life. Because of our sin, we will all die a physical death, but Christ's resurrection conquered death so that those who accept Him will also one day be resurrected to eternal life. And by the way, I do believe we can have confidence that Christ's resurrection is real because as the pastor pointed out last Sunday for Easter, why would the apostles stick with this story for forty years under brutal persecution if it was a lie?

I cannot say which book of the Bible is my favorite. As I once heard a pastor quip, being asked your favorite book of the Bible is akin to a parent being asked which child is their favorite? They are all beautiful in their own way. But lately, the book of Ecclesiastes has really resonated with me. I will be reflecting a lot more about this book in the future as I still grapple with the allure of a Rumspringa. I thought I had made peace with this temptation and come to a mature perspective, but then literally two days after publishing that post, I was tempted into another unproductive train of thought. Reading Ecclesiastes has helped me find proper perspective again. More on that later. But Ecclesiastes is also incredibly relevant to the theme of this post.

If read without proper context, Ecclesiastes is incredibly depressing. The message, translated into modern language is basically, everything is meaningless, life sucks and then you die. The writer makes allusions to the idea that we will all be held accountable for our actions even if we may not see it in this life, and the idea that we should view life as a gift from God, but the book offers little comfort for this world and uncertainty with regard to what comes next. The passage I found most depressing is Ecclesiastes 3:18-21, where after speculating that God tests us so that we may see that we are like the animals, that death awaits us both, he states, "Who knows if the human spirit rises upward and if the animal spirit goes down into the earth?"

But the amazing thing about Ecclesiastes, which Andrew Hill and John Walton point out in their survey of the Old Testament, is that this book points to the need for Christ and his resurrection. Though the writer revered God, since he lived in the time before Christ came and fully revealed his plan to redeem humanity, the writer did not fully comprehend what makes us superior to all other animals. He understood that in some ways, we are like the animals. We have the propensity to behave like animals, we are made of the same biological stuff as animals, and we will both die a physical death. He understood that as humans made in God's image, we are held to a higher moral standard than the animals. Yet he did not have the final piece of the puzzle, the piece that fully articulates our superiority to all other animals. It wasn't until Christ's resurrection that we were assured that our souls do indeed rise, and that we have the chance to enjoy eternal life in a restored creation, while the souls of animals go down into the earth. Knowing this, our hearts should break for people who reject Christ and view themselves as nothing more than highly evolved animals. They don't know what richness of life they are missing, now and in the future.

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Merry Christmas and Happy New Year readers! Don’t worry, I am alive and well. It has just been a crazy Fall semester and I either haven’t had the time or haven’t been in the right frame of mind to write. I have so much to update you on, from the family vacation to Hilton Head (I survived!) to the start of a new job. But first, I wanted to share the final research paper I wrote for Part 2 of Systematic Theology, which as I think I mentioned, I wouldn’t have had to take as I already had enough credits for the certificate in Christian Studies with just the first class which I took last Spring. But the professor kept teasing topics that would be covered further in Part 2, so I knew I would regret not taking it. The new job was a somewhat unexpected development, and my grades for a couple weeks weren’t great as learning the new job in addition to all of the reading Systematic Theology requires was quite an adjustment. But I soon found my footing, and I am still glad I took this course when I did. As long-time readers might recall, I have felt compelled to write my own reflections on how Christmas is a foretaste of eternity, especially in light of the pandemic. It just so happened that for the final research paper, this subject, which is known in scholar speak as “eschatology” (a Greek term meaning “last things”), was a topic option. But unfortunately, this Christmas Day was humbling for me when, in light of selfish behavior on my part, God forced me to examine whether I truly believe what I preach. More specifics to come in a follow-up post. My professor hasn’t graded this paper yet, but I feel compelled to go ahead and share it anyway because it was written from the heart, and since I discovered I need the perspective preached in this paper as much as anyone, I think it might help others as well.

Introduction

At the time of this writing, Christmas is approaching. I believe the Christmas season is the perfect occasion to reflect on Oscar Cullmann's inaugurated eschatology as we celebrate the fact that the Son of God who one day "shall reign forever and ever" humbled himself and became fully human to dwell among us, teach us how to live, and ultimately rescue us from sin and eternal death. Of course, the true significance of Christmas is all-too-often corrupted in our fallen state, even by professed Christians who do not view the Christmas season as a time of comfort and joy, but instead as a time of frenetic busyness, credit card debt, and family conflict as they define Christmas by secular standards, the deepest longings of their hearts tragically misplaced. But I believe it is no coincidence that this time of year, Christians and unbelievers alike sing longingly of "peace on earth, good will to men." I believe the Holy Spirit speaks to us through the Christmas season. Though many of our Christmas traditions have pagan origins, if we embrace them with proper perspective, God can use the fellowship and joy at the root of them to give us a foretaste of eternal life when peace, fellowship, comfort and joy will not be just a dream but our reality.

In this paper, I will first discuss the diversity of viewpoints related to eschatology from ancient Judaism and the early Christian church through to the present. Then, I will discuss biblical teaching related to eschatology from both the Old Testament and the New Testament. Finally, I will show that Oscar Cullmann's inaugurated eschatology, with its tension between the "already" and the "not yet" is the eschatological view best supported by Scripture, and the profound implications this view has for our present lives, and for eternity.

History of Eschatological Thought

Today, the eschatological debate among theologians is characterized by three different views. Premillennialists believe that the present world will grow increasingly wicked until Christ returns and establishes a literal thousand year reign of peace and righteousness on earth. This view is based on a literal interpretation of Revelation 20:4-6.1 Postmillennialists believe that the preaching of the gospel will be successful, and gradually but surely, the world will be converted and evil will be virtually eliminated.2 Once the gospel has reached the ends of the earth in the biblical sense of both knowledge and obedience, Christ will return, but the millennium Scripture speaks of is not a future period when Christ returns in bodily form to reign on earth, but a spiritual, invisible reign of Christ here and now. Postmillennialists cite Matthew 24:14 to support this view. Similar to postmillennialists, amillennialists reject the idea of a literal reign of Christ on earth, asserting instead that the millennium is symbolic of the period between the first and second advents of Christ, and the final judgment will occur immediately upon Christ's return.3 But according to Michael Horton, these three views only came about during the late 19th century. For most of church history, the debate was simply between millenarianism (a literal thousand year reign of Christ) and amillennialism.4

Apocalyptic fervor can be traced back to Second Temple Jerusalem. The most commonly held view, and a view that would persist through Jesus's earthly ministry and the destruction of the second temple in AD 70 was that the personal arrival of the Messiah, David's heir, would usher in a golden age at the end of history, defined by the restoration of Mosaic theocracy which would be centered in Jerusalem, but would extend to the ends of the earth, and the banishment of Gentile oppressors from the land.5 This view was so entrenched that even Jesus's disciples, who followed him during his earthly ministry, witnessed his death and touched him after his resurrection still did not fully comprehend that Christ's mission was never intended to be the mere geopolitical or temporary restoration of Israel (Acts 1:6-8 TNIV).

In general, the early church took the amillennial view that Christ's kingdom had been inaugurated with the first advent of Christ but awaited its full consummation.6 But as the church transitioned from a persecuted church to one that enjoyed favor from the emperor with the conversion of Constantine to Christianity in the fourth century, the amillennial view also transitioned from a view that recognized the precariousness of the church in the clash between the present age and the age to come, to a more optimistic outlook in which it became plausible to believe that Christ could be reigning on earth through his earthly representative, the emperor.7 Thus in a sense, the amillennialist view following the conversion of Constantine closely resembles the postmillennialism of today. In fact, this optimism was so central to early Christendom that the common assumption was that Christ's kingdom was not only already present in the world, but fully realized in the Holy Roman empire.8 In the fifth century, Augustine would write City of God, in which he sought to revive the already-not yet tension of the early church, distinguishing between the "two cities" of this present age, "each with its own commission, purpose, destiny and means."9 But after Augustine, the fusion of church and empire was so thorough that this nuanced view was all but forgotten.

The Reformers, especially John Calvin and Martin Luther, articulated the distinction between the two cities of the present age even more clearly than Augustine, and revived the precarious, already-not yet reality of the church in the present age.10 But unlike anabaptists, who advocated for radical criticism of the status quo, the Reformers believed that Christians must live as citizens of two worlds.11

The defining eschatological view at the dawn of the modern age was postmillennialism. Romantics, rationists, idealists and revolutionaries drew inspiration from the writings of Secilian monk Joachim of Fiore. Based on a literal interpretation of prophecy in the book of Revelation, he divided human history into three ages. The age of the Father, spanning from Adam to the time of Christ, was the era of law. The age of the Son, spanning from Christ to Joachim's day, was the era of grace. The age of the Spirit, Joachim predicted would begin in 1260 and would be defined by the end of the church, and with it, the end of any need for preaching or sacraments because all would know God.12 Rationalists would secularize Joachim's age of the Spirit, referring to it as the age of enlightenment.13

Postmillennialism was the predominant view from the 17th century through the 19th century, especially in the United States and Great Britain. This view explains John Winthrop's declaration of puritan New England as a "shining city upon a hill" as well as in the enthusiasm for foreign missions, the establishment of church-sponsored voluntary societies and service agencies, and the implementation of moral reforms.14 But by the 20th century, the failure of World War I (the war to end all wars) to bring about lasting peace caused postmillennial optimism to largely fade, and premillennial pessimism to experience a revival. Over the course of D. L. Moody's life, he became increasingly pessimistic about the capability of earthly empires to become the kingdom of God.15 While the consensus is not universal, premillennial pessimism seems to be the predominant view among orthodox evangelical theologians today.

Biblical Teaching on Eschatology

Although God chose not to fully reveal his redemptive plan to the Old Testament writers, the psalms and prophetic books are full of allusions to the return of Christ. Although Psalm 2:8-9 is addressed to David, New Testament writers have applied these verses to Christ, as they "attest to Christ's enthronement and rulership over the nations."16 Similarly, although at surface level Psalm 110 celebrates the coronation of the Davidic king, it ultimately finds fulfillment in Jesus, the "triumphant high priest."17 While Psalm 72 is not directly quoted by New Testament writers, it is a prayer for the Davidic king that finds its ultimate fulfillment in Christ and his kingdom.18

Though the prophetic books were written in the context of the fall of Jerusalem and Babylon, these prophecies often merged with visions that clearly speak of future worldwide wrath and judgment of the unrighteous, but also a time of redemption and peace for the righteous.19 Perhaps the most vivid descriptions of this future come from Isaiah. Isaiah 13:11 states, "I will punish the world for its evil, the wicked for their sins." Isaiah 11:4-5 prophesies the judgment of the wicked, but for the righteous, Isaiah 11:6-9 offers beautiful imagery of future restoration, peace and safety. "The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them" (Isa. 11:6). Furthermore, references to "the earth, "peoples" and nations" in this passage clearly implies that this kingdom is not merely heavenly or spiritual.20

The future judgment of the unrighteous and the kingdom of Heaven were central to Jesus's teaching. The four gospels record many parables Jesus used to describe the kingdom of heaven. Particularly noteworthy are Matthew 13:24-30, the parable of the wheat and the weeds, and Matthew 13:47-48, the parable of the net that caught all kinds of fish. Regarding these parables, Anthony Thiselton remarks, "there can be no doubt that the central teaching of Jesus looks to a time of vindication and sovereign intervention of God in the future."21

In addition according to D. A. Carson, the strongest affirmation of the already-not yet tension of inaugurated eschatology is summed up in John 5:24-29. In John 5:24, Jesus indicates that believers do not face the final judgment but "leave the court already acquitted."22 Not only that, but the believer does not have to wait until the future resurrection to experience eternal life because the believer in this life has already crossed over from death into life, a teaching which Paul reiterates in Colossians 1:13. In the following verse (John 5:25), Jesus says "a time is coming and has now come when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God and those who hear will live" an indication that "the resurrection life of the physically dead in the end time is already being manifest as life for the spiritually dead."23 Yet it is clear from 5:28-29 that John anticipates a final resurrection in the future.

Following Jesus's ascension back to heaven, the earliest teaching on eschatology is found in 1 Thessalonians 4:16-17. While Anthony Thiselton agrees with the assessment of theologians including George Caird and Tom Wright that Paul's language in these verses is metaphorical, Thiselton argues it does not change the ultimate message of these verses, which is that Christians will meet the Lord "clothed in their postresurrection bodies."24 The apocalyptic language of these verses also would have called to mind the Old Testament, which was the extent of the Bible for the early church, especially Daniel 7:13-14.

The word Paul uses to refer to the coming of Christ is Parousia, a greek noun that means "the state of being present" and is related to the verb Pareimi, meaning "I am here."25 In the Roman and Helenistic context in which Paul lived, parousia was sometimes used with reference to ordinary people, but was especially used to indicate the coming of the emperor or someone of high rank."26 All of Paul's letters reference inaugurated eschatology. In Philippians 3:12 for example, Paul simultaneously recognizes that he has already attained resurrection from the dead, and yet remarks, "I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold for me." Some theologians, most notably R. H. Charles, have written off Paul's language choice as mere survivals of Jewish apocalyptic thought which he eventually planned to eliminate or reinterpret."27 But John Lowe refutes this, remarking that all of Paul's letters originate from a time in his life when he had time for careful reflection, and the maturity of an older man. Furthermore, Galatians 1:4 (an early letter) and Colossians 1:13 (a late letter) both contain almost identical apocalyptic language regarding Christ's rescue of believers from this evil age.28

The writer of Hebrews references inaugurated eschatology in 4:1-11, where he likens the future kingdom of God to God's sabbath rest on the seventh day, and views the ministry of Jesus as the true fulfillment of God's Promise Land. Jesus "won for us the Sabbath rest which Joshua (another Greek rendering of Jesus) could not provide for us when he led Israel into the Promise Land."29

The entire book of Revelation centers on apocalyptic language, but the only passage that explicitly indicates a literal thousand year reign of Christ on earth is 20:1-10. Although Craig Keener acknowledges that this is the most debated passage in Revelation and there is far from universal consensus, he sites four factors in favor of a literal millennial reign of Christ following the tribulation. First, the binding of Satan during the thousand year reign seems far more plausible than the postmillennial or amillennial view given Satan's "deceptive and murderous activity during the present age."30 Second, this passage indicates that the saints have already been martyred, which suggests that the tribulation preceeds the millennial reign of Christ.31 Third, Revelation 20:4-6 indicates that the righteous, those who did not worship the beast, would be resurrected first and reign with Christ for a thousand years, but the unrighteous would not be resurrected until the thousand years were complete. According to Craig Keener, this suggests a bodily, rather than a merely spiritual resurrection.32 Finally, Revelation 20 presupposes all that has occurred in Chapter 12-19, meaning that the beasts and false prophets have already been thrown into the lake of fire, and Satan can no longer deceive.33

Implications Now and For Eternity

Anthony Thiselton remarks that in Paul's letters, he "acknowledges the faith and love of the church, but also recognizes that inadequate confidence and certainty in the Parousia will lead to declining hope."34 I believe that inadequate confidence and certainty in the Parousia is at the root of the depression, anxiety, and misplaced longing of so many hearts, even among professed Christians. But given the teaching from Scripture cited above, I believe we can have complete confidence and certainty in the Parousia and recover a sense of hope, peace and eternal joy every day of the year. This is because the already-not yet tension of Oscar Cullmann's inaugurated eschatology has profound implications for life now and in the future. First and foremost, Christians should not waste precious time engaging in futile speculation about exactly when Christ will return because according to Anthony Hoekema, the "signs of the times" described throughout Scripture (most notably in Matthew 24), are events that must occur before Christ returns, but should not be thought of as events that occur exclusively in the end-time, but instead as events that occur throughout the era between Christ's first and second advent.35 Furthermore, Jesus explicitly states that neither the angels nor the Son knows the hour when he will return, but only the Father (Mark 13:32). Therefore, we must be content with the "not yet" but keep watch as the parables teach. Second, the church must embrace the already-not yet tension by viewing one another as forgiven sinners, gently restoring those who fall into sin while being careful of their own temptation as Paul teaches in Galatians 6:1.

Third, this tension should provide incentive for living a virtuous life because as Paul writes in Galatians 6:8, if we "sow to please the flesh" in this life, we will reap destruction in the next life, but if we "sow to please the spirit" we will reap eternal life. Of course, we will struggle with sin in this life, but if we have accepted Christ, we can engage in this struggle "not with the expectation of defeat, but in the confidence of victory."36 This tension should also be reflected in our self-image. Christians should think of ourselves as imperfect new people. According to Oscar Cullmann, for Christians today, the "already" outweighs the "not yet."37

Finally, for Christians this tension should put suffering in proper perspective, and abolish the fear of our physical death. In this life, even believers will suffer because suffering is the "concrete manifestation of the not yet."38 But the already of our new life in Christ allows us to embrace our suffering because suffering yields perseverance, perseverance yields character, and character yields hope (Romans 5:4). Another concrete manifestation of the "net yet" is the reality of our physical death. But even this death, Christians have no reason to fear because we will enter immediately into the presence of the Lord. Though our bodies will be buried by loved ones, our consciousness, our personality will continue in an intermediate state. According to Erwin Lutzer, theologians disagree on how to interpret 2 Corinthians 5:1. The disagreement centers on whether the "building from God" refers to a temporary body the departed receive immediately when they get to heaven, or if this building refers to our resurrection bodies. On the one hand, the fact that the rich man could experience physical torment and see Lazarus in heaven, and the fact that departed believers can sing the praises of God and communicate with one another suggests the possibility of a temporary body. On the other hand, the fact that Paul puts so much emphasis on our future resurrection suggests that departed souls are in an incomplete, unnatural disembodied state, but there is not universal consensus on this matter.39 But whether or not we have bodies in heaven, just being in the presence of the Lord will bring "fullness of joy" (Psalm 16:11) and thus believers should not fear death. Of course, we will grieve when loved ones go through physical death. Even Jesus wept when Lazarus died because physical death is a consequence of sin and was never intended in God's good creation. But because of the confident hope we can have knowing we will see our loved ones again, and be in the presence of the Lord ourselves one day, believers should not allow grief to turn to despair.

Yet as wonderful as even this intermediate state will be, it is only temporary. The best is yet to come, the moment when we receive our resurrection bodies. Erwin Lutzer reminds us that these resurrection bodies will be like Christ's resurrected body, which has profound implications. In 1 Corinthians 15:44, Paul says that our earthly body is a natural body, but our resurrected body will be a spiritual body. But this does not mean we will be disembodied spirits. It means that while only God can be omnipresent, like Christ, we will be free from the limitations of terrestrial travel, able to travel effortlessly from place to place. We will eat, "not because we are hungry, but because we delight in the fellowship it affords."40 Even in the intermediate state, but especially in our resurrected states, the highest moments of our life now in the already, will continue eternally, only perfected and glorified.41 Artists will still create art, musicians will still make music, scientists will continue to make discoveries about God's creation. Only our desire to sin will be lost. Therefore, whatever suffering this life may throw our way, whether it is the physical suffering of illness or poverty, or the emotional anguish of navigating broken relationships, or even a demanding or unsatisfying job, we can embrace and persevere through this suffering with the perspective of a spiritual sense of joy, as we eagerly anticipate the "not yet" of knowing this life is not all there is.

References

1. Millard Erickson, Christian Theology, (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2013), 1110.

2. Erickson, Christian Theology, 1107.

3. Erickson, Christian Theology 1112.

4. Michael Horton, The Christian Faith: A Systematic Theology for Pilgrims on the Way, (Grand Rapids, Mich: Zondervan, 2011), 920.

5. Horton, The Christian Faith, 921.

6. Horton, The Christian Faith, 923.

7. Horton, The Christian Faith, 923.

8. Horton, The Christian Faith, 924.

9. Horton, The Christian Faith, 924.

10. Horton, The Christian Faith, 926.

11. Horton, The Christian Faith, 926.

12. Horton, The Christian Faith, 925.

13. Horton, The Christian Faith, 927.

14. Horton, The Christian Faith, 927.

15. Horton, The Christian Faith, 928.

16. Bruce Demarest and Gordon Lewis, Integrative Theology, (Grand Rapids, Mich: Academie Books, 1987), 386.

17. Demarest and Lewis, Integrative Theology, 386.

18. Demarest and Lewis, Integrative Theology, 386.

19. Demarest and Lewis, Integrative Theology, 387.

20. Demarest and Lewis, Integrative Theology, 388.

21. Anthony Thiselton, Life after Death: A New Approach to the Last Things, (Grand Rapids, Mich: W.B. Eerdmans Pub. 2012), 100.

22. D. A. Carson, The Gospel According to John. (Leicester, England: Inter-Varsity Press, 1991), 256.

23. Carson, The Gospel, 256.

24. Thiselton, Life After Death, 90.

25. Thiselton, Life After Death, 91.

26. Thiselton, Life After Death, 91.

27. Thiselton, Life After Death, 92.

28. Thiselton, Life After Death, 93.

29. Thiselton, Life After Death, 105.

30. Craig Keener, Revelation: From Biblical Text to Contemporary Life, (Grand Rapids, Mich: Zondervan, 2000), 464.

31. Keener, Revelation, 464.

32. Keener, Revelation, 464.

33. Keener, Revelation, 465.

34. Thiselton, Life After Death, 91.

35. Anthony Hoekema, The Bible and the Future, (Grand Rapids, Mich: Eerdmans, 1952), 70.

36. Hoekema, The Bible, 71.

37. Hoekema, The Bible, 71.

38. Hoekema, The Bible, 72.

39. Erwin Lutzer, One Minute After You Die: A Preview of your Final Destination, (Chicago, Ill: Moody Press, 1997), 66.

40. Lutzer, One Minute, 70.

41. Lutzer, One Minute, 61.

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As promised, here is the research paper I wrote last semester about the sanctity of life. It addresses mostly the abortion debate, but also physician-assisted suicide. If you are just joining us, I encourage you to scroll down to

yesterday's post

for clarification and context. I also want to add one more clarification. My last post focused exclusively on abortion as that is the issue dominating news and politics right now, but I believe there should be legislation banning physician-assisted suicide because as my paper explains, there are so many ethical problems with this practice unrelated to religion.

Introduction

The biblical perspective of human dignity is a subject of personal significance for me. When my mother was pregnant with me in 1989, a routine blood test revealed abnormal protein levels which she was told indicated an increased risk that I would be born with Down syndrome. Her doctor offered the option of undergoing an amniocentesis, the results of which would be more conclusive. She declined this test because it is a very delicate procedure that carries the small, but in my mother's view unnecessary risk of causing miscarriage. My parents were both raised with a Christian worldview, so they were going to bring me into the world and love me either way. It turned out that I did not have Down syndrome, but seven months later, I would be diagnosed with a brain tumor which would damage my optic nerve rendering me totally blind.

In the ancient pre-Christian Greek and Roman empires, it was common practice to kill or abandon infants born with deformities, but unfortunately, failure to recognize the sanctity of every human life cannot be dismissed as ancient history. In the early decades of the 20th century, a

eugenics movement

inspired passage of compulsory sterilization laws in 32 states targeting people deemed "inferior or dangerous" including the poor, the disabled, the mentally ill, criminals, even people of color.1 These laws resulted in the compulsory sterilization of 60,000 people and persisted in some states until the 1970s. The eugenics laws in the United States inspired Hitler to implement the National Socialist compulsory sterilization program in Germany where between 1934 and 1945, 350,000 people were sterilized, and this program would prove to be a "stepping stone to the Holocaust."2

In 2004, Denmark became one of the first countries in the world to offer all pregnant women prenatal screening for Down syndrome. Since then, 95 percent of women who test positive choose to terminate the pregnancy, and in 2019, only 18 babies were born with Down syndrome in Denmark.3 And of course, the abortion debate is center stage once again in this country following the leak of a Supreme Court draft opinion last week signaling the possible overturn of Roe v. Wade. The sanctity of every human life is not universally recognized at the end of life either. Physician-assisted suicide (which ironically, proponents prefer to be called "death with dignity") is currently legal in 10 states as well as the District of Columbia.4

Admittedly, secular criticism of the biblical worldview is not entirely unfounded. Some pro-life advocates that garner media attention may speak the truth, but they fail to do so with love and humility and in some cases, I think their motives center more on a desire for power or political influence than a genuine concern for the sanctity of life. But in this paper, I will argue that we cannot let the lack of love and humility, or disingenuous motives on the part of some overshadow the truth, which is that a biblical worldview is essential for a healthy society, and the drift of society away from the biblical worldview will ultimately have devastating implications for everyone. I will first briefly examine personhood theory, and the related philosophy of materialism, emphasizing how these ideas fall short. Then I will zoom in and closely examine the biblical perspective regarding human dignity. I will conclude with an examination of the devastating implications of abandoning the biblical worldview.

Western Philosophy

In her book Love Thy Body, Nancy Pearcey explains that most ancient civilizations believed that reality was based on a "unified system of truth" with an overall unity between the natural order and the moral order.5 But modern Western thought gave rise to a split system of truth. American theologian Francis Schaeffer illustrates this split system with the analogy of a two-story building. The lower story consists of objective, empirically testable facts that everyone must accept regardless of their personal beliefs. The upper story consists of morality and theology which are considered subjective and relative. Therefore, the prevailing view for modern enlightenment philosophy was that reliable knowledge of reality could only be found in the lower story, that which could be empirically tested. Personhood theory is an outworking of this dualistic understanding of reality, and it is the theory often used to justify abortion. Personhood theory argues that human dignity requires "the ability to exercise conscious, deliberate control over our lives," the equivalent of the upper story.6 Since it is thought that fetuses have not yet acquired this capacity, they are not considered a person, but merely a lower story biological organism.

Robert Wennberg's even starker explanation of the actuality principle shows it is synonymous with personhood theory. According to the actuality principle, "only beings with a developed capacity for conscious self-reflective intelligence have a right to life."7 Proponents of this theory argue that rights, by definition are a means for protecting interests. They are invoked by their possessor to "avoid sacrifice of those interests."8 But anything that lacks a capacity for conscious self-reflective intelligence has no interests to protect, and therefore no rights. By this definition, a fetus, even a newborn infant is no different than a rock. The actuality principle also denies personhood to the irreversibly comatose and the severely retarded. Some animal rights activists even invoke personhood theory arguing that "not all people are persons, but some animals are persons."9 In other words, some animal rights activists would prefer that medical experiments be done with fetuses, infants, severely retarded or irreversibly comatose people rather than dogs because dogs have a higher cognitive capacity than these people.

Animal rights activists are not wrong in their belief that we should treat animals with respect. Indeed, Proverbs 12:10 says that "a righteous man cares for the needs of his animals." But the secular perspective is misguided in its reasoning. The biblical perspective is superior to the secular perspective in revealing that respect isn't contingent on cognitive capacity. All living beings should be treated with respect because they were created by God and have intrinsic value. At the same time, as Kevin Vanhoozer points out, while all other creatures were created according to a generic pattern (after their kind), humans were made according to a divine pattern (in our likeness).10 So although God provides for the birds, Jesus affirms in Matthew 6:26 that humans are more valuable in God's view than birds simply by virtue of being created according to a divine pattern. Furthermore, Jesus's example of compassion for women, children, the sick, and people with disabilities, groups deemed inferior in Roman society clearly demonstrates that all people are valuable to God.

Admittedly, Scripture does not comment explicitly on whether fetuses are fully human, but there is enough evidence from Scripture to argue it is highly likely they are. For example, in Exodus 21:22-25, God says that if two men get into a fight and hit a pregnant woman causing her to give birth prematurely but there is no serious injury, the offender must only pay the husband a fine. But if there is serious injury, the community must "take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth" (lex talionis). What is noteworthy about this passage is that it does not specify who must be harmed for lex talionis to be applied, leaving open the possibility that it would apply if either the woman or the premature baby were harmed. In the New Testament, Hebrews 7:10 states that "when Melchizedek met Abraham, Levi was still in the body of his ancestor." This verse offers compelling evidence that the soul is not infused into a child after birth. The entire human nature (both body and soul) of the child is transmitted directly by the parents. While these verses do not conclusively prove that a fetus is fully human, I agree with Millard Erickson that given how severely Scripture condemns the destruction of human life, "prudence dictates that a conservative course be followed."11

Another influential worldview in society that derives from personhood theory is the philosophy of materialism which grew out of Charles Darwin's theory of evolution. The basic premise of materialism is that humans are nothing more than biological organisms motivated only by physical pain and pleasure. This philosophy relies on the same Western split system of truth to argue that since morality is not something that can be seen or empirically tested, it is an illusion, "window dressing to disguise what is really nothing but the human organism's drive to avoid pain and enhance pleasure."12 Even from a secular perspective, this view is problematic because even ardent materialists are logically forced to acknowledge the necessity of drawing a line beyond which a person is no longer a lower story biologically human organism, but an upper story person with rights. Without such a line, it would be justifiable to kill anyone. The problem is, apart from the Christian worldview, there is no objective criteria for determining personhood. Some bioethicist like Peter Singer argue that even toddlers are a "gray case" since their cognitive capacity is still quite limited.13

At the end of life, the materialist philosophy is used to justify assisted suicide. The logic of this argument rests on what Ulla Schmidt calls "the general appeal of consequentialism" which argues that an agent ought to have the freedom to choose the action that would yield "the maximum net positive result."14 For a patient with a terminal illness facing severe pain with no hope of recovery (enhancing pleasure), the maximum net positive result for the patient might mean at least allowing the patient to end her suffering. Even from a secular perspective this theory is problematic because it depends on the ideal situation in which the patient is of sound mind, and is not being coerced by family or healthcare personnel, and documentation has proven that this is not always the reality.15 But even in an ideal situation, assisted suicide is problematic from the biblical perspective. In Genesis 9:6, God explicitly forbids murder because the fact that humans were created in the image of God makes all human life inviolable, so I believe it is safe to presume from this verse that the physician who assists a patient in ending her life would be complicit in committing murder, even if it is what the patient claims to want. In a systematic rejection of suicide, Augustine also argues that Genesis 9:6 forbids the killing of oneself because patience is a fundamental Christian virtue, and therefore the evil and suffering of this world must be patiently endured.16

Another problem with the materialism philosophy's justification of assisted suicide to end suffering is that a 2014 study found that most people choose assisted suicide not because they are experiencing physical pain or even because they fear such pain in the future, but because they have indirectly absorbed personhood theory and don't want to be a burden to others when they are no longer a "person" in the upper story sense of the word.17 This is an inconvenient truth for proponents of assisted suicide who portray the practice as a compassionate choice. But even if proponents acknowledged this inconvenient truth and framed assisted suicide as an act of compassion to spare the patient's family the burden of caring for them, this argument would be a flagrant misuse of the word compassion because Scripture teaches that "true compassion means being willing to suffer on behalf of others, loving them enough to bear the burden of caring for them."18

Materialism can also reduce human life to a cost-benefit analysis. While proponents of physician-assisted suicide claim there are safeguards against coercion, some cancer patients in states where this practice is legal have reported being pressured by their insurance provider to choose this option because medication to end life is a whole lot cheaper than cancer treatment.19 From a utilitarian perspective, euthanasia of cancer patients might promote the greatest good for the greatest number in terms of sparing the patient's family enormous medical bills, and lowering healthcare costs for everyone. But the biblical perspective recognizes that "it is God who has called the individual into existence for his purposes and ends, and those purposes cannot be set aside in the name of the collective interests of society."20

The Biblical Perspective

Kevin Vanhoozer acknowledges that the analysis of our material dimension by the natural sciences is not, in and of itself problematic. After all, Genesis 3:19 states that from dust we were created, and to dust we will return. But Kevin Vanhoozer considers the natural sciences to be "provisional versions of human reality that need to be deepened, or perhaps disciplined by explicitly Christian beliefs" because the natural sciences cannot adequately account for human behavior.21 While philosophical anthropology attempts to explain human behavior, it has difficulty reconciling the simultaneous optimism of human creativity and pessimism of humanity's destructive potential.22 The proper understanding of human behavior, and by extension the concept of human dignity, can only be understood through the lens of theological anthropology.

The biblical perspective of human dignity centers on the theological statement that humanity was created in God's image. Scripture does not offer much in the way of an explicit definition of what this means, but there is enough evidence from Scripture to affirm three crucial truths based on this statement. First, the name Adam refers not just to one man, but to humanity as a whole. John Kilner points out that this fact often goes unnoticed by Christians living in individualistic societies such as the United States.23 But the consequences of this oversight have been devastating, as it has led to a flawed understanding of the concepts of freedom and autonomy in these societies. While the secular concept of freedom centers on self-determination, the biblical perspective is what Ulla Schmidt describes as a "paradoxical freedom."24 We are free in the sense that regardless of our circumstances in this world, this world is not our true home. But we are also bound in relationship to God and to one another, which implies that we are not free to end human life--even a life that is still inside a mother's womb--or even to kill ourselves, thereby breaking this relationship. Second, the creation-cultural mandate of Genesis 1:28 is a consequence of being created in God's image, but it is not the image itself. According to John Kilner, misunderstanding of this truth has led many to define the concept of being in God's image as currently possessing attributes of God such as the capacity for reasoning.25 It should be obvious how this misinterpretation opens the door to acceptance of personhood theory, leading even supposed Christians to justify the exploitation or murder of fetuses, infants, or the irreversibly comatose on grounds that since these people lack attributes of God, they are not in God's image. Finally, although sin has severely damaged people, it has not destroyed, damaged or even twisted the image itself because the true image of God is Christ. Paul states in Ephesians 4:24 that we are "created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness." While John Kilner acknowledges the honest intentions of theologians who use the metaphorical language of God's image being damaged to drive home the devastating consequences of human sin, he argues that this idea has robbed people of their dignity by implying a sense of hopelessness, causing people to abandon any sense of accountability to God for their actions. Christ is currently the only true image of God, but we are all called to become this image of righteousness and holiness, which in practical terms entails a re-framing of the concept of our dominion over creation. There is no human dignity in Western philosophies whose valuing of human life is based on subjective criteria, and whose idea of dominion is a "strategy for acquiring, increasing and securing power over others."26 True human dignity is only achieved when we conform to Christ's idea of dominion, a dominion of peace based on the objective premise that all human life has intrinsic value.

Conclusion

Some opponents of Christianity can respect a Christian's personal conviction that practices like abortion and euthanasia are wrong, but resent having the Christian view imposed on them. On the surface, this is a fair argument. But the problem according to Nancy Pearcey is that "when society accepts the practice, it absorbs the worldview that justifies it."27 Currently, abortion and prenatal screening for conditions like Down syndrome are framed as a choice. But if such practices become widely accepted, it may only be a matter of time before insurance companies and taxpayers resent the cost of medical care, special education services and accommodations for these children, and view parents who bring these children into the world as irresponsible. At worst, this could mean that genetic screening and abortion of children with Down syndrome (or any other disability for which a prenatal test is developed in the future) may no longer be optional. At the very least, it would result in a much more hostile world for all people with disabilities, with public accommodations and technological innovation becoming a lower priority, especially for "preventable" disabilities. Society could also come to view abortion as the best option for poor families, which would lead to disinvestment in social welfare services. If assisted suicide is widely accepted, the suffering for people who choose to live would also increase as innovation related to palliative care would also become a low priority. As already mentioned, the coercion of cancer patients in states where assisted suicide is legal proves that if assisted suicide becomes a widely accepted practice, it may only be a matter of time before euthanasia is no longer optional for people with conditions that incur high medical costs.

Perhaps these stark implications could be driven home for opponents of Christianity by co-opting the utilitarian philosophy. Sometimes, it is necessary to forfeit individual rights to promote the greatest good for the greatest number, especially since we are all--regardless of race, education or socio-economic status--potentially just one unexpected illness or horrific accident away from this discussion no longer being hypothetical. The Christian with righteous motives does not impose their views on others out of a selfish desire for power or political influence. We do so because individual choices eventually add up to a society's worldview, and out of love for our neighbor, we wish to protect society from becoming a more technologically advanced, but no less brutal version of societies like ancient Rome whose pre-Christian worldview ultimately had devastating consequences for everyone.

In addition to the practical reasons for promoting the God-given dignity of all human life, even Laura Hercher, a genetic counselor at Sarah Lawrence College raised the rhetorical question, "if the world didn't have people with special needs and these vulnerabilities, would we be missing a part of our humanity?"28 From a theological perspective, my answer is that we absolutely would. When Jesus and his disciples encounter the man blind from birth, Jesus said "this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life" (John 9:3). Personally, I believe this passage indicates that people with disabilities are a part of God's plan and he has a purpose for them which could not be accomplished any other way. Even though I have a disability myself, I have become so accustomed to living with it that even I take my blessings for granted and can easily become self-absorbed. But when I visit my grandma in the nursing home who is confined to a wheelchair and can barely speak now due to Parkinsons disease, my capacity for compassion and empathy is renewed. Whenever I meet new people, I love witnessing their amazement when I show them how I read and write using braille. Perhaps God allowed a world with vulnerable people and people with disabilities to teach us how to be compassionate and open-minded to other ways of living, making the tapestry of humanity infinitely more beautiful.

1. Lisa Ko, “Unwanted Sterilization and Eugenics Programs in the United States,” Independent Lens: Beyond the Films, January 29, 2016, https://www.pbs.org/independentlens/blog/unwanted-sterilization-and-eugenics-programs-in-the-United-states.html.

2. Ko, “Unwanted.”

3. Sarah Zhang, “Prenatal Testing and the Future of Down Syndrome,” The Atlantic, December 2020, https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/the-last-children-of-down-syndrome/616928.

4. “States Where Medical aid in Dying is Authorized,” Compassion and Choices, Accessed May 9, 2022, https://compassionandchoices.org/resources/states-where-medical-aid-in-dying-is-authorized.

5. Nancy Pearcey, Love thy Body, (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2018), 12.

6. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 86.

7. Robert Wennberg, “The Right to Life: Three Theories,” Christian Scholar’s Review 13, no. 4 (1984): 317.

8. Wennberg, ”The Right to Life,” 318.

9. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 103.

10. Kevin Vanhoozer, “Human Being, Individual and Social,” in The Cambridge Companion to Christian Doctrine, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 163.

11. Millard Erickson, Christian Theology, (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2013), 508.

12. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 89.

13. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 54.

14. Ulla Schmidt, “Euthanasia, Autonomy and Beneficence,” Studia Theologica 56, no. 2 (2002), 316.

15. Schmidt, “Euthanasia,” 137.

16. Schmidt, “Euthanasia,” 315.

17. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 90.

18. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 91.

19. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 91.

20. Wennberg, “The Right to Life,” 317.

21. Vanhoozer, “Human Being,” 160.

22. Vanhoozer, “Human Being,” 162.

23. John Kilner, Dignity and Destiny: Humanity in the Image of God, (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Pub. Company, 2015), 196.

24. Schmidt, “Euthanasia,” 142.

25. Kilner, Dignity and Destiny, 22.

26. Vanhoozer, “Human Being,” 162.

27. Pearcey, Love thy Body, 93.

28. Zhang, "Prenatal Testing."

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Erickson, Millard J.

Christian Theology. Third edition.

Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2013.

Kaelber, Lutz. "Eugenics: Compulsory Sterilization in 50 American States

University of Vermont

Updated 2011

https://www.uvm.edu/~lkaelber/eugenics/

Kilner, John Frederic.

Dignity and Destiny: Humanity in the Image of God.

Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans Pub. Company, 2015.

Ko, Lisa. "Unwanted Sterilization and Eugenics Programs in the United States."

Independent Lens: Beyond the Films.

January 29, 2016

https://www.pbs.org/independentlens/blog/unwanted-sterilization-and-eugenics-programs-in-the-united-states/

Pearcey, Nancy.

Love Thy Body: Answering Hard Questions About Life and Sexuality.

Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 2018.

Schmidt, Ulla. "Euthanasia, Autonomy and Beneficence."

Studia Theologica 56, no. 2 (2002): 132-51.

"States Where Medical aid in Dying is Authorized," Compassion and Choices, accessed May 9, 2022, https://compassionandchoices.org/resources/states-or-territories-where-medical-aid-in-dying-is-authorized

Wennberg Robert N. "The Right to Life: Three Theories."

Christian Scholar's Review 13, no. 4 (1984): 315-32.

Vanhoozer, Kevin. “Human Being, Individual and Social.” In The Cambridge Companion to Christian Doctrine, 158–188. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997.

Zhang, Sarah. "Prenatal Testing and the Future of Down Syndrome."

The Atlantic

December 2020

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/the-last-children-of-down-syndrome/616928/

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Well readers, I am a woman of my word, and given that the Fall semester of seminary school officially starts this week, and the abortion debate will probably dominate the news cycle until midterms, it is almost time that I share the research paper I wrote last semester on the biblical perspective on human dignity. As I mentioned, I earned an 84%, not the greatest grade but in retrospect I realize it was a fair grade as I got too emotionally invested in the paper and thus it was too narrowly focused on the sanctity of life when the concept of human dignity also involves a more broadly defined inclusion of groups both society and the church tend to marginalize such as the aged, or people who choose to remain single. I also share this paper with the caveat that because of its narrow focus, abortion as it relates to genetic screening for disabilities like Down Syndrome, my true views on the broader abortion debate are not as black-and-white as portrayed in this paper. Hence, the reason this post is in two parts. Since my paper is over 3,000 words, I am giving it a post of its own tomorrow. But before sharing my paper, I wanted to clarify my views on this issue because although I believe there is compelling biblical evidence that God regards the unborn as fully human, the extreme degree to which many fundamentalists have weaponized Scripture related to this subject, sadly but understandably explains why so few people in my generation, and the younger generations want to associate with Christianity, and I want to make sure readers understand that these are not my views. Furthermore, since Scripture does not explicitly address abortion, it is important that theologians approach this subject with humility.

Abortion is a very sensitive and complicated subject, so much so that when I was a junior in high school and a Social Studies class required us to research an issue and present our views on the issue, the teacher said abortion was the only topic that was off limits. (I chose the topic of capital punishment, an issue that I feared the teacher wouldn't accept because it also has to do with sanctity of life. But he allowed it because it wasn't abortion). So it is with a little trepidation that I am devoting a blog to this issue. (My paper will also address physician-assisted suicide.) But in these times, bravery--which I define as doing your best to speak truth and stand up for what is right regardless of political or social consequences--is becoming ever more essential, so I am going to be brave.

When I was a senior in high school, I heard some of my peers from an advanced literature class talking about The Handmaid's Tale. Out of curiosity, I downloaded it from Bookshare, but at the time didn't get very far because the plot moves very slowly and I just couldn't stay engaged with it. But then a few years later, around the time Donald Trump was elected and society at-large was raving about it, I decided I ought to give it another try, and this time I could hardly put it down. I finished it shortly before the first season of the TV show was released on Hulu, and I engaged in much lively conversation with other female coworkers at the Social Security disability law firm where I worked at the time about how scary the show was when you considered that real life seemed to be getting perilously close to resembling Gilead. Around that time, Mom found a YouTube video--unfortunately I could not find it again--in which Laura Ingraham was asked by the host of the Fox show immediately following her whether she would consider running for President, and she responded that she would, accept for the fact that she believes women shouldn't work outside the home! Of course, the hypocrisy of this statement was glaring, given that she hosted a TV show and made millions of dollars, making her a real life Serena Joy! What is even more astounding is that in an article the author, Margaret Atwood wrote for The Atlantic, she said she stopped writing the book several times, thinking that the plot was too far-fetched!

I do stand by my belief that the genetic testing industry should be regarded with a healthy degree of wariness because as my paper will explain, if society comes to accept abortion of embryos likely to be born with disabilities (high-tech eugenics) the implications would ultimately be devastating for everyone. But my paper overlooked three important truths. First, the presence of a genetic abnormality is not the reason behind most abortions. Second, people in privileged positions--men who will never experience pregnancy firsthand, as well as women whose wealth/whiteness insolates them--really have no business weighing in on all of the scenarios which for them are merely hypothetical. While I am qualified to advocate for children with disabilities, in retrospect, I realize I am not really even qualified to judge mothers who choose to abort a child likely to be born with a disability because I am in a position of privilege as a white woman born into a comfortably middle-class family who has never gone a day without excellent health insurance, and attended an affluent school district that was able and willing to provide all of the support I needed. One subject that was briefly discussed in the Shake the Dust interview with Dr. Amy Kenny which I mentioned in a previous post, is the idea that mothers who choose to abort babies with genetic abnormalities are not necessarily cold-hearted proponents for eugenics. Systemic racism, generations of poverty and constant cuts or threats of cuts to welfare programs trigger the legitimate fear for expecting mothers from less privileged backgrounds that they will not be able to properly provide for a child with disabilities. Ideally, we should prioritize robust legislation that rectifies our history of systemic racism and strengthens social safety nets, which would assuage the fears of these mothers, but in the meantime, no one has the right to judge them for choosing abortion. But most importantly, all of the hypothetical scenarios bandied about by politicians are what my paralegal textbooks would call red herrings, rabbit trails the opposing party coaxes you down to distract you from the real issue at play. In The Color of Compromise which I read last semester, the primary focus is racism, but Jemar Tisby also briefly discusses the history of the abortion debate because it is actually relevant to systemic racism. When Roe v. Wade was ruled in 1973, Christians' views on abortion were mixed, and the Southern Baptist convention, the largest Protestant denomination in the United States even passed a resolution stating that legislation should allow for abortion in cases of rape, incest, severe fetal deformity, and the physical, mental and emotional health of the mother. But when Christian fundamentalists were unsuccessful in their efforts to resist racial integration of schools, they needed a new issue to coalesce a voter base around to maintain their power and influence. The issue they ultimately decided to focus on was abortion. And while the pro-choice platform of Democrats seems kinder on the surface, the truth is that both sides now use the abortion issue to raise money and gain power and influence. Personally, I wish culture influencers would do more to promote responsible behavior BY BOTH PARTIES in a consenting relationship to avoid unwanted pregnancies rather than getting an abortion after the fact. At the same time, earthly governments have no business legislating morality.

I look forward to the day when the whole world lives under a righteous, Christian government, but given our fallen state, we cannot and should not establish such a government by our own power. In 18th century America, many feared that government disestablishment from religion would mean the end of religion and moral disaster. While I don't have official statistics on how many Americans became religious nones immediately following disestablishment, there were no doubt some people who chose this path. There were definitely Deists, influenced by enlightenment philosophy such as Thomas Paine's Age of Reason who respected Jesus's teaching related to morality, but rejected the supernatural. But overall after disestablishment, Christianity actually flourished like never before as people could chose the denomination that most spoke to their hearts, and attending church was a choice. (All mainstream Christian denominations basically agree on essential doctrine. Their differences lie in how to interpret ordinances (for example, Infant baptism or believer baptism?) and worship style. The more I reflect on the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the extreme state laws this decision triggered, I cannot help but wonder if these laws are the modern manifestation of a desire of some to return to the status quo for most of our overall bleak human history when people in positions of power usurped God, denying the masses the chance to exercise the free will God intended. Under this system, a king could boast that his territory had been "Christianized" but no one's heart was really in it. This is suggested in the introduction to a primary source from 17th-century Europe which I read for my Church History course, which cited regulations prohibitting walking around or gosiping during prayers, and one distinguished theologian was praised at his funeral for never having slept during church! Thomas Jefferson had many flaws--most notably his hypocrisy in championing freedom while owning slaves--but we should all be grateful for his wisdom in pointing out that "if an all-wise and all-powerful God chose not to coerce the bodies or minds of men and women" what gives us "fallible, uninspired men" the right to do so (Schmidt and Gaustad, Religious History of America Chapter 6)?

When fundamentalists of any religion seek to implement a theocratic government, the fact that all earthly governments are under the influence of Satan means that any righteous intentions that may have existed to begin with always and inevitably give way to hypocrisy, and a complete misrepresentation of the true tenets of the faith, as addiction to power takes precedence over genuine faith. Margaret Atwood illustrates these shortcomings of theocracy brilliantly in The Handmaid's Tale, as well as its sequel, The Testaments. In The Handmaid's Tale, June becomes aware of the hypocrisy of Gilead when after being forced to adhere to strict 17th-century purity standards, the commander Fred Waterford takes her to a former hotel converted into an underground brothel to satisfy the needs of high-status commanders and officers. In The Testaments, Aunt Vidala, the religion teacher at the "school" for girls in Gilead takes the story of the Levite and his concubine from Judges 19 and 20 completely out of context. But there are plenty of real-life examples, both historic and current, of hypocrisy and the cherry-picking of Scripture, from the conduct of Jerry Falwell Jr., to white pastors in 19th-century America who took Scripture out of context to justify chattel slavery. The abortion issue is just another example of hypocrisy, given that the same politicians who are vehemently pro-life as it relates to abortion resist any efforts to control who has access to guns, or strengthen social safety nets to protect children after they are born. It also bothers me that pro-life dialog around this topic seems to put all of the blame and shame of an unintended pregnancy on the shoulders of women when as far as I am aware, the virgin Mary is the only woman in human history who became pregnant without the involvement of a man.

Because of my medical history, I most likely will never be pregnant, which occasionally gives me twinges of sadness because I would love the opportunity to raise a child from infancy someday. So I must admit I could kind of empathize when I heard that some protestors stand outside abortion clinics with signs that say, "I will adopt your baby." But I am now beginning to understand why women seeking abortions find such signs offensive. As my paper will explain, the Bible never explicitly addresses abortion, but there is compelling evidence to suggest that God cherishes the unborn, and that they may possess souls long before birth. But there is also much more direct evidence in Scripture that God values women as more than mere incubators. Carrying an unwanted pregnancy can be traumatic, even dangerous, especially for women of color, and the motives of people like me are actually quite selfish given that there are already thousands of older children, even teenagers in the foster care system who need loving forever homes.

All this is to say that as I have learned more about the abortion issue since the overturn of Roe v. Wade, my views on abortion have become more nuanced since I wrote my paper. Politicians whose Christianity and pro-life position is genuine would support positive legislation that indirectly encourages women to choose life, such as legislation that strengthens social safety nets and garantees universal access to health care, while having the humility to recognize that as politicians, they are not experts in all of the difficult real-world situations that lead to abortion, and therefore should not enact rigid laws banning it. Since science and medicine are aspects of God's general revelation to all of humanity, doctors should have no fear providing medical care that technically involves abortion, and legislators should trust women and their doctors to privately decide what is in the best interest of all parties on a case-by-case basis rather than setting arbitrary limits on when abortion is permissible.

I am pro-life, and I believe that from the moment of conception, embryos should be respected as far more sacred than just a clump of cells. But I also believe that sincere Christianity should define pro-life in far broader terms than the abortion issue. Furthermore, Christians also need to have the humility to recognize that as compelling as passages like Luke 1:41 (when John the Baptist leaped in Elizabeth's womb at the sound of Mary's voice) are for us in-house, theologians disagree on how literally to interpret this, and other passages related to the unborn. So we must accept that this idea that life begins at conception is not a universal view imparted through general revelation on the consciences of all humanity, but a perspective gleaned from God's special revelation in Scripture. As Christians, we can and should share the gospel on an individual level by praying to the Holy Spirit for guidance in gently, lovingly encouraging friends, family, coworkers who may reach out to us to choose life. Yet there is no ambiguity as to how to interpret verses where Jesus calls us to have compassion for the poor, the refugee seeking asylum, women, and these values have also been imparted on the conscience of the vast majority of humanity, as evidenced by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights which was drafted by people from diverse nationalities and religious backgrounds, and was passed in 1948 by the United Nations in response to the atrocities of World War II and the Holocaust. Legislation should focus on these universal human rights, many of which the United States has room for improvement in recognizing. But we should leave the judgment of women who seek abortion to God. Jesus, who was all-powerful and without sin, never coerced people to adhere to his teachings, but drew people to him through love, mercy, compassion. If the Christian faith and pro-life views of politicians and pro-life lobbyists were sincere, they would do the same.

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This past year, Mom deep-cleaned the basement, put in new flooring (by herself), donated/threw away things we no longer used and reorganized special items we wanted to keep. One day several months ago, shortly after this massive undertaking was complete, I had just finished walking on the treadmill one Tuesday evening when I grabbed my phone off the shelf where I set it to play music, and in so doing noticed a folder with braille sticking out of it. Curious, I carefully pulled out the folder to look inside, and discovered she had saved the letter I wrote on Wednesday November 3, 2004, the day after the 2004 election, to President George W. Bush.

I remember that day vividly. I was a freshman in high school, too young to vote, but I voted for John Kerry in a mock school election during lunch period on the eve of the real election. To my dismay, George W. Bush was declared the winner of the mock election. But my parents weren't surprised at all. We were independent voters, but they told me our county is a very Republican-leaning county. Looking back on it, high school was an interesting time. My peers and I were taking more interest in current events, as we realized how rapidly adulthood was approaching, and were starting to form our own opinions, and yet we were still largely sheltered, our opinions heavily influenced by our family values. The bus ride to school on Election Day was interesting, as I witnessed a boy from a conservative family get into a somewhat heated argument with the bus driver, a Black woman. A couple days later, on the bus ride home, I voiced my disappointment with Republican opposition to stem-cell research to a boy in a wheelchair due to muscular dystrophy whom I had ridden the bus with since elementary school. We had a casual friendship. One monday morning in middle school, he told me that a big project for Social Studies was due that day when I thought we had another week to work on it. When he saw my panicked face, he laughed and said, "Just kidding!" I liked teasing him for his unfair advantage in gym class when he would cruise around the perimeter of the gym in his wheelchair while the rest of us had to walk the laps. (He had his own exercises appropriate to his situation later).

On the bus home a couple days after Election Day, I told him how my sister and her boyfriend (now husband), were pursuing science degrees at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and pointed out that this field of research could one day repair my optic nerve and restore my sight, but Republican opposition was slowing this research. He responded that stem-cell research might hold the cure to his muscular dystrophy too, but he would rather remain handicapped than benefit from research that killed embryos. I didn't have a response to this compelling argument. This conversation, and the interesting tension between self-interest and ethics it raised came back to mind on June 24 when Roe v. Wade was overturned. I will talk more about this issue specifically in another post, but that conversation was my first awareness of the reality that these sensitive issues are not black-and-white, and to pass legislation at either extreme that does not recognize this reality is counter-productive. (It would be really interesting to know where these bus friends stand on these issues now that they have experienced the broader adult world.)

The winner of the real election had not been called as of 7:30 Wednesday morning when I left for school. But one of my friends who somehow had access to the news came up to me in the hall between second and third hour, and informed me, with an excited tone of voice that indicated she had voted for Bush in the mock election, that George W. Bush was declared the winner, and John Kerry had just conceded. I think I smiled and uttered a neutral, "That's cool!" Good sportsmanship was heavily emphasized in my family, and our school, so it never occurred to me to question the integrity of the election, or that one day, an insurrection would be instigated by adults who could not accept the outcome of an election. But after talking to my friend, a burning inspiration welled up in me, a sense that I needed to get civically engaged. I was going to write a letter to the president voicing my concerns. I have heard of people doing this. I have even heard of children being invited to the State of the Union address and being recognized for their activism. Maybe I would be recognized for my activism too, not just any teenager, but a blind teenager writing a letter to the president! Maybe shaking hands with one of my senators would fast-track me to an internship program and I would one day be president of the United States. Yes, I had a really big ego! In fact, my ego was so big that the following Saturday, realizing that I would no longer own the BrailleNote that composed this letter once I graduated high school, and even before then the digital file could be lost, I spent the morning re-typing the letter on my Perkins Brailler so that it would be preserved for posterity. It clocked in at 1,431 words according to my BrailleNote, 3 print pages, 8.5 braille pages.

I must have given my Math homework short-shrift that night because I remember typing feverishly on my letter that evening. I finished it during study hall the following afternoon, and printed it at school. The following day, Friday, there was no school, as we always had a long weekend at the end of each quarter to give teachers time for grading. This meant Mom could take me to the post office first thing in the morning, I realized as I got on the bus that afternoon!

Mom laughed a little uneasily about the pointed language in my letter--no veiled threats or anything like that, just a very snarky tone--but she was fully supportive of my activism. So that evening, she helped me re-type the letter on our desktop computer to correct some formatting issues and make minor edits, but the final letter ended up being pretty close to my original inspiration, and on Friday morning, it was signed and sealed and Mom promised we would drop it off at the post office on the way to a garden center with Grandma.

I forget the specifics of why the post office mailbox was blocked, but Mom said she couldn't pull the car up to it as she usually does, and she thought it would be easier if I just give her the envelope and let her get out of the car and drop it in the mailbox. So I gave her the letter, but when two months passed with no response, despite knowing that Mom is a person of impeccable integrity whom I still trust to fill out my ballots on Election Days--and we have on a few occasions voted differently--I had to ask, "you really did drop it in the box, right?" In my teenage mind, it dawned on me that given the contentious political climate--though child's play compared to the political climate today--her understandable motherly instinct to protect me from possible negative repercussions could have prompted an uncharacteristic one-time act of deception that would have been very easy to pull off given I am blind. She could have gotten out of the car, walked to the mailbox, maybe even stuck her hand in the mailbox without actually releasing the envelope from her grip, and walked back to the car.

Much later--I think it might have been March or April--I did receive a terse, generic form letter. No invitations to the State of the Union Address, no fast-tracking to an internship, but it still ended up being a valuable learning experience that still influences how I think about politics today.

My cynical attitude toward politics was cemented during my time studying with my Jehovah's Witness friends. When they explained why they do not vote or run for political office, I remember challenging, "but if we had more people of good character in government, this world could be better?" They responded that there are good people in office, but they are ineffective because all earthly governments are influenced by Satan. When they went home, and I watched news coverage of Donald Trump's meteoric rise in popularity despite a complete absence of morals, or Republicans so out-of-touch with average people, so beholden to lobbyists, and so addicted to power that they championed denial of health coverage to people with pre-existing conditions and refused to pass sensible gun control legislation even after hearing emotional testimony from grieving families, when Hillary Clinton, despite having character far superior to Trump, was nonetheless also beholden to large donors and wasn't entirely transparent, especially when it was revealed she used a private e-mail server for government correspondences, it occurred to me, "oh my goodness! The Jehovah's Witnesses are right!" But the seed of cynicism was planted with that letter back in 2004, my first realization that politicians really don't care what the average teenager in middle-America thinks.

To be fair, like I said it wasn't the greatest letter. I laughed hysterically when I found this letter. I cannot believe what a snarky teenager I was! To get a taste of my tone, here is the first paragraph: "My name is Allison Nastoff and I am fourteen years old. I am also blind. I am writing to you on behalf of me as well as my parents, siblings and friends to inform you that I am very disappointed that you were reelected. Let me tell you why since apparently, you haven't been listening to the news or the pleas of half the American people." The rest of the letter is pretty much parroting rhetoric from hyper-partisan sources like Michael Moore's movie Fahrenheit 9/11, or arguments I overheard from friends and family. My ignorance of history was also on full display, as I unfairly attributed economic policies that encouraged the outsourcing of jobs, and opposition to abortion and stem-cell research to George W. Bush personally, not fully understanding the concept of party platforms, and unaware that the modern positions of the Republican Party actually originated with Ronald Reagan, and the Moral Majority Campaign of Christian fundamentalists that got him elected.

What is interesting about this letter though is that despite having a much better grasp of history, and eighteen additional years of life experience and exposure to people with different views, my positions on the issues I address remain largely unchanged. If I were writing this letter today, my reasoning would simply be more nuanced, and of course, I would write more conscientiously and seek constructive feedback to ensure my tone would be less off-putting. For example, when criticizing his opposition to same-sex marriage and abortion, I write, "I am definitely against gay marriage and abortion because marriage should be between a man and a woman, and having an abortion does take the life of an unborn child, but I strongly oppose outlawing abortion, and passing a constitutional amendment prohibiting gay marriage. This is because, as John Kerry said, you can't legislate your religious beliefs." I laughed at my teenage self for being so partisan that I appealed to John Kerry as if he were God. Today, if I chose to appeal to a person, I would choose someone more illustrious like Thomas Jefferson who stated in the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom that, "Almighty God hath created the mind free." But while we should not go as far as totally demonizing Thomas Jefferson, we should acknowledge the hypocrisy of this and other statements he made regarding liberty in light of the reality that he owned many slaves. Perhaps a more impactful argument would simply be to respectfully point out that while we are free to have our own personal convictions on these subjects, we really have no right to broadcast our opinions, much less legislate on them unless we have had firsthand experience with these circumstances.

One fundamental aspect of my letter has evolved significantly however. In my critique of the war in Iraq, in my critique of his opposition to stem-cell research, and in the conclusion of the letter, I give considerable attention to America's stature in the world. Perhaps embracing the idea of American exceptionalism was understandable in 2004, just three years after 9/11. The way I remember it, although there was certainly division in 2004, there was also still a lingering sense of patriotism in those days. But as an adult, I have come to believe that the concept of American exceptionalism is problematic. Even if you don't ascribe to Christianity, I would submit to you that American exceptionalism is harmful because it actually hinders our progress toward becoming more exceptional (a more perfect union). It's like when I was in chamber choir in high school. Chamber choir was the highest-level choir in the school. Auditions were required to get in, and not everyone who auditioned was accepted. We all loved to sing, and knew what we had signed up for, more challenging music. But this choir met the last hour of the day, so we were tired from a long school day. I think we would have loved to just come to choir, sing our songs straight through, be told we were awesome, and go home refreshed from an hour of carefree singing and the stroking of our egos as the students privileged to be in the highest-level choir in the school. But that is not how Mrs. B operated. She did not care that it was the last hour of the day. She expected excellence from us, and there were many days when we couldn't sing more than one note without her stopping to nitpick the tiniest improperly pronounced vowel, or tone that wasn't locked. One day when she could sense that the class was exasperated by this, she stopped and explained that her nitpicking was out of love. We were excellent, but while the choir director who doesn't have high expectations, doesn't call out when students could do better may be the more fun teacher in the short-term, long-term, such teachers ultimately do their students a disservice. I believe the same metaphor is appropriate for our country. We do have a lot to be proud of as a country. No other civilization in human history has enjoyed the same degree of freedom, especially regarding speech and religion, as the United States. But we also have a lot to be ashamed of, especially our history of slavery, systemic racism, and the murder and oppression of indigenous people. Instead of reflexively accusing people like Nicole Hannah Jones (author of The 1619 Project) of hating America, we should recognize that people like her are comparable to Mrs. B. It is because they love this country that they challenge us to actually live up to the ideals espoused in our Constitution, which cannot happen until we are willing to take the extremely uncomfortable but necessary first step of exposing our ugly history to full sunlight.

But for those of us who are Christian, American exceptionalism is especially dangerous because we have a tendency to merge this exceptionalism with Christianity (Christian Nationalism) which is actually a form of idolatry that ultimately leads people to worship country before God. It should come as no surprise that this attitude leads to the implementation of policies that are anything but Christian, but which people justify using Scripture.

Thus if I were writing this letter today, I would radically reform the following problematic passage related to the war in Iraq: "But perhaps the most saddening aspect of this war in Iraq is our declining stature in the world. Before you took office, America was a super-power, a dream land which many immigrants saved all their earnings to immigrate to. Yet I have heard many predictions, even from optimistic adults predict that in four years, America will no longer be a super-power, or a dream place that people will immigrate to." First, the most saddening aspect of this war was the death of thousands of American soldiers and Iraqi civilians in a war that could not even be justified as self-defense provoked by a direct attack. But today I would ask, what gives us the right to appoint ourselves policemen of the world, toppling regimes like Saddam Hussein (evil as he was) when we have our own cruel history? I would also completely abandon the concern over our country no longer being a super-power because now I realize, so what if we are no longer a super-power. All once-revered empires in history--Ancient Egypt, Assyria, Babylon, Rome--and in modern times Great Britain, eventually fell. Even God's chosen people Israel were ultimately divided and scattered. The Bible says that kings are set up and deposed according to God's sovereign will (Daniel 2:21), and numerous Bible verses make it clear that only Christ's kingdom will endure forever. Some Bible scholars speculate that perhaps the United States is represented in the feet of the statue envisioned in King Nebachadnezar's dream, made from a mix of iron and clay, an empire that is strong because of the iron, but also divided (Daniel 2:41). But there is far from universal agreement about this, and in any case, such speculation is counter-productive. What matters is that no great empire of human history has endured forever, and to think that the United States will end up being some kind of divinely ordained exception to this pattern is a form of idolatry.

As I mentioned back in June when I felt inspired to write about the gun violence epidemic, I had planned to read Jesus and John Wayne this summer, a book introduced to me in a discussion from my American Church History course. Unfortunately, I haven't gotten very far, and realistically won't have it finished by the time school starts again in a week and a half as it reads like a textbook so I have had difficulty staying focused on it. But in chapter 1, the author discusses how liberal Protestants and Fundamentalist Christians disagreed over whether the United States should get involved in World War I. While liberal Protestants saw the war as a war to end all wars, and an opportunity for the United States to extend Democracy and Christianity across the globe, fundamentalists questioned the very notion that the United States is or ever was a Christian nation. Unfortunately, it wouldn't take long for the attitudes of fundamentalists to radically change, but I would have agreed with a quote from the November 1914 edition of The King's Business, a monthly publication of the Bible Institute of Los Angeles. "A Christian nation" the editors argued, "is a nation which, as a nation has accepted Christ as its Savior and as its Lord in its commerce, in its politics, in its international relations and in all the departments of its life. Such a nation does not exist on Earth, and never has existed, and never will exist until our Lord comes again." Thus if I were writing this letter to George W. Bush today, I would no longer embrace the attitude of American exceptionalism, and would respectfully urge President Bush to return to the true tenants of the Christian faith, to seek peace, not war, to implement policies that honor the human dignity of all, even at the cost of political power, wealth or our dominance on the world stage.

The political polarization today is such that during the Trump administration when I helped friends and family compose respectful letters to our representatives voicing our concerns, the letters were completely disregarded. I believe we are much safer as a nation under President Biden, a man whose integrity, character and competence is far superior to Donald Trump. But he is by no means perfect. I especially disagree with his decision to step back from his bold promises to invest in clean energy and issue new permits for oil drilling to lower gas prices, putting short-term economic interests ahead of the long-term existential threat of climate change. And Joe Biden is still part of a political system beholden to money and special interests such that I think even today if the teenage me said she wanted to write a letter to the president or her representatives, I would say, "Don't waste your time."

This past Tuesday, Wisconsin held its primary election, and one of the races on the ballot was the race for the Democratic candidate who would run against--and hopefully unseat--Ron Johnson, a horrific embodiment of Christian nationalism. One of the candidates that ran was Steven Olikara. It just so happens that I went to school with him from kindergarten through high school, but that had nothing to do with why I supported him. His campaign was radical, and a refreshing departure from traditional politics. He wanted to represent the "exhausted majority," the vast majority of Americans who no longer trust that government can work for them. On Sunday July 17, a debate was televised statewide, and while the other candidates gave the traditional canned political responses to issues--assuring viewers of their pro-choice stance for example--Steven Olikara recognized the abortion debate had nothing to do with genuine concern for women or babies. It was an example of the political-industrial complex, an issue that both sides use to raise money and gain political power. He promised he would work to get money out of politics, even promising that he would not fundraise while Congress was in session. His website also advocated for term limits, and a citizen-legislature such that ordinary people could have access to politics, and thus the interests of ordinary people would be better represented. But ironically and unfortunately, because of his impeccable integrity, his refusal to participate in "the system" by accepting money from special interests, his campaign budget was only $500,000 compared with the multiple millions of the candidate the party establishment decided to coalesce behind, Mandella Barns. Many Wisconsinites likely were unaware of Steven Olikara because I only saw one very brief commercial last Sunday morning, and it frustrated me to hear that even many voters who were impressed by him decided to vote for other candidates, succumbing to concerns over "electability." Thus to my astonishment, while Mandella Barns won with over 389,000 votes, Steven Olikara received only 5,611 votes statewide! At least I can proudly say I was one of them. This is not to say that Mandella Barns isn't a good person. While he is wealthy now, as a black man raised by working-class parents, I am confident he understands and will represent ordinary people far better than Ron Johnson has. I also recognize that even if Steven Olikara won the primary race and the general election in November, his effectiveness would have been hindered by "the system." The Bible is clear that no earthly mortal--not even Steven Olikara--can truly reform our fallen world. Thus, I would tell the teenage me that while Ronald Reagan's racist rhetoric regarding welfare, and "law and order," and his flawed belief in trickle-down economics have done immeasurable harm to this country, he did get one thing right. Government is not the solution to our problems. Government is the problem. As such, far more productive than running for political office or writing letters to your representatives will be your decision to study to become a chaplain.

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I met my best friend in August 2008. His name was Gilbert, a yellow lab, my first guide dog and a loyal companion for twelve years. He came at just the right time to assist me in navigating college and the start of my career, and I couldn’t have asked for a more loving, loyal companion.

My parents and I made the difficult decision to put him to sleep on December 2, 2020, the day after his fourteenth birthday. This was during the worst of the pandemic, and normally, protocol at our vet required calling the vet upon arrival in the parking lot, and a tech would come to the car and take the pets in for their examinations while the owners waited in the car. It broke my heart to realize Gilbert might have to cross the rainbow bridge alone. But I was blessed that, at a time when human loved ones had to pass away in hospitals alone, the vet made an exception and allowed me to come in to sit beside my best friend in his final moments. I cried in June 2019, when I could no longer deny the reality that Gilbert was too frail for the long summer walks we used to enjoy. But by December 2, 2020, I knew it was time to let him go, and as I sat on the floor with him while the vet administered the injection, my parents, the vet and I smiled through our masks as we shared stories of our happy life together.

The final year of his life, he could barely walk and could not climb stairs. But every morning for most of his life, he would be waiting outside my bedroom door when I woke up to greet me with sincere joy as soon as that door opened. (I couldn't sleep with him because his snoring kept me awake.) He had to stop going to work with me in 2019 when he developed incontinence, but right up to the end, he came eagerly to me when it was time to leave for work each day, even as he needed a ramp to get into our car. It was rare to encounter anyone who didn't adore him. Over the years, everyone from peers to professors to coworkers told me that just seeing Gilbert, with his sweet, sunny disposition, brightened their day, and even the most no-nonsense professors couldn't help but stop and laugh when Gilbert would emit a perfectly timed snore or sigh during a boring lecture.

It breaks my heart to think about how, throughout human history, so many people have misconstrued the privileged status God gave to humans as rulers over all creation. While it is true that we are the only species with complex language (both oral and written), and the ability to reason and be held morally accountable, I believe God created animals like Gilbert not merely to serve us, but to teach us in a unique, nonjudgmental, nonpreachy way, how to be better people.

For one thing, Gilbert didn't know or care how much money I may or may not have had. In fact, he didn't even understand the concept of money. He only asked that his basic needs were met and was more interested in my love and attention than fancy dog toys. This attitude has given me a more mature perspective in my interaction with others, especially around occasions like Christmas where I also have come to realize that the joy of a new thing is fleeting, whereas love and attention given and received with family and friends offers truer, lasting joy.

On a similar note, Gilbert has also taught me to better appreciate the simple pleasures of life. It is so tempting to get consumed by self-pity, or to compare yourself to others and think “if only I had that job, or if only I had more money, life would be so much more exciting.” But when you don’t understand and thus cannot care about concepts like money and status, simple pleasures like eating, or looking out the window make every day an exciting day. While I am still a work in progress, I am trying to adopt this outlook on life, this appreciation and gratitude for the simple pleasures of life.

As with any deep friendship, we had the occasional argument.

"I know I'm on duty Mom, but I see my own kin ahead. I miss my kin as I am an only dog. Can I PLEASE PLEASE go say hi?" he would ask in dog language, panting desperately, increasing his speed dramatically, wagging his tail, and whining.

"No! I need you to guide me safely right now," I would try to answer in dog language, administering a leash correction, making him stop, sit and lay down to restore discipline, but our conflict was never fully resolved.

But when he wasn't distracted by his own kin, he was the most trustworthy and sensitive guide a blind person could want. Sensing that snow and ice made me uneasy, he walked extra slow and cautiously in the winter. He also sensed that I was prone to tripping on the smallest of cracks in sidewalks, and would stop or slow down for cracks that guide dogs normally would have dismissed as insignificant. One Tuesday morning in 2010 when Gilbert and I attended a Bible study at a local church, Gilbert did not notice a pole that separated two doors. That day, as my head hit the pole with an audible PING, I understood firsthand the expression "seeing stars," despite being totally blind, and Mom who was with me swore the building shook. I was too shocked to discipline him or point out his mistake and have a do-over as is proper guide dog handler protocol, but it turned out I didn't need to. For several weeks after, he remembered that pole and needed coaxing to walk me through that door again. If he had been injured in that incident, you could call his behavior fear or self-preservation. But since he was not injured, I firmly believe his behavior was a sign of remorse, his way of apologizing profusely that he made a mistake that injured me, and promising it would never happen again, at least not there.

He was only capable of living his life one moment at a time. I cannot tell you how much time I have wasted worrying about something that will happen at work tomorrow, or fretting about what the future holds, while Gilbert was snoring contentedly. He didn't know what the future held either, but he didn't seem to care because in that current moment, he was sleeping peacefully, and that was all that mattered.

This also meant he was incapable of holding grudges. In 2016, he accompanied me for a job interview. It was a state government job I was really excited and hopeful about, but he made me look bad, and a month later, I received the rejection letter. For a week or so after that letter, I did what I had to do to take care of him, but the thought of him almost made me cry as I wondered if he may have cost me the job. When I would call his name, I could feel frustration and resentment in my tone of voice, and after work, I would just retreat to my room and not want anything to do with him. But soon it occurred to me that while I was replaying this moment in my head over and over, he had probably long forgotten about it. And even in the midst of that moment, he was not behaving out of malice toward me. He did not understand the seriousness of a job interview. All he knew was that there was another dog in the office which was unexpected, and his doggy instincts got the better of him. When I came to these realizations, I forgave him in my heart and showed him extra love. In return, he gave no indication that he noticed my resentment of him, or if he was aware of it, he had clearly forgiven and forgotten. Since that experience, I have noticed myself doing a better job of trying to apply this attitude to my other relationships, forgiving others quicker and giving them the benefit of the doubt.

Since he couldn't speak, scientists still debate whether friends like him are really capable of showing love. But when I passed out from dehydration in 2010 and had to go to the emergency room, he did not want to leave my side when I returned home, and when I had to go to work without him because he needed surgery to remove a tumor from his mouth, Mom said he had been crying until I got in the car, at which point he rode home with his head in my lap. In his final year of life when he could no longer climb stairs, he would cry from his bed downstairs if he was left alone, but when I went downstairs and sat with him to read or watch TV, he was happy. I couldn't have found any words to make him feel better even if he could have understood them, but just my presence was all he wanted. These, and other incidents too numerous to recount speak volumes. Love is a universal language that does not require words, a truth that we should all keep in mind in our human relationships, especially with elderly relatives nearing the end of life.

Don’t worry. I am not a crazy dog lady. I have many wonderful human friends as well, and I cannot imagine life without them. I also recognize the limits of dogs. We need the lifelong relationships and meaningful conversation that only human friendships can provide. But there is something unique about the relationship between man and dog that it is no wonder dogs have been coined as “man’s best friend.” Perhaps this reputation comes from their long history as loyal helpers that worked alongside humans, protecting the homestead from wolves, hunting, or guiding sleds. But given my experience with Gilbert, and the other pet dogs I have grown up with, I also wonder if we are drawn to dogs for friendship because they embody what all humans long for but have never figured out how to fully attain. After all, if we could all live the way our dogs live–savoring life one moment at a time, appreciating the simple things and not getting caught up in worldly trappings like money and status, being there for each other in times of need even if we are at a loss for the right words to bring comfort, loving and accepting one another unconditionally, letting go of grudges and forgiving quickly–just think how much better this world could be. And for people whose only friends seem to be their dogs, I wonder if it is because they have been let down by people in their lives, and they feel their dogs are the only ones that love them unconditionally. If we know of such people in our own lives, what if, instead of looking down on them and making fun of their obsession with their dogs, we instead aspired to live more like these dogs, and strive to be that friend their owners have been seeking?

If you want a reason to smile for the day, and to see for yourself how sweet and adorable Gilbert was, here is a video Carroll University recorded on graduation day when we both received recognition. I received my diploma and he received a bone.

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It is 2010, and I am standing in front of a classroom of thirty college students at Carroll University where I am a student myself. But I am not in this class. My classes are in the communication and english departments. This is a class for business majors studying diversity in the workplace, and I have been invited as a guest speaker. Presentations like this are second nature to me. I have been giving presentations like this since I was in second grade and was invited to speak to a third grade class. When you have such a rare disability, you are an ambassador whether you want to be or not, but I do genuinely enjoy giving these presentations.

In front of me, the professor has graciously placed a big table where I set up as the class chats amongst themselves and gets situated. I have brought along my BrailleNote, the Perkins Brailler which I used for math, the one subject that is not as feasible on the BrailleNote where you can only see one line at a time, some braille promotion cards I bought from the National Federation of the Blind that have the alphabet in print and braille, a grocery bag with boxes of cereal, milk and utensils--later in the class, students will put on blindfolds and attempt to make themselves a bowl of cereal--and of course, Gilbert who lies snoring at my feet.

I introduce myself and give a brief history of how I became blind, and how I adapted, at school and at home. Then for the next hour or so, I open up the floor for questions. Most of the time is spent on the garden variety questions like how I accomplish various tasks, whether I enjoy watching television. But without fail, the big question always comes, usually toward the end like a grand finale: "if advancements in science allowed you to see again one day, would you want to?"

I am not offended by the question. It is a valid question I am sure I would have asked if our roles were reversed, and something I have wondered about when listening to people with other disabilities I cannot imagine living with, such as people confined to a wheelchair. The problem is, this question always leads to internal conflict for me. These presentations are not job interviews, but indirectly, they are. After graduation, many of these student will go on to careers in business, possibly conducting job interviews themselves. If they see that a candidate for a job is visually impaired, their interaction with me will almost certainly come back to mind, and with it, the attitude I conveyed toward living with blindness. There is an unwritten rule in the disability community that to wish for your disability to be healed is unseemly, a sign of low self-esteem. So the same advice experts give for job interviews applies. Be honest, but accentuate the positives. Project confidence. So I respond with a half-truth, that it would be neat to experience what it would be like to see for maybe ten minutes, like if there were goggles I could put on like the ones used for drunk driving simulations in high school. But really, being blind is normal for me as I was too young to remember when I had sight, so having sight restored someday isn't something I think about a lot. But the full, unvarnished truth is way too complicated to sum up in a job interview or class presentation.

It is a Sunday morning when I am five or six years old. I am standing with my family at Saint Dominic's Catholic church listening to Father Kurt read from the Gospel of John. Like most children that age, I was fidgety and often tuned out the church service, just wanting to get home. But that day's reading piqued my interest. It was the story of Jesus encountering a man blind from birth, begging by the side of the road. Jesus puts mud on the man's eyes, telling him to go wash in the Pool of Siloam, at which point his sight would be restored. Mom must have sensed what my little mind was thinking as an excited smile spread on my face. Usually preferring that us kids hold our questions until we are in the car, Mom leans over to me on the spot and explains to me in a whisper how this story was actually a metaphor for spiritual blindness. Now that I am an adult, I believe her explanation was also a half-truth. Jesus absolutely does use this healing to expose the spiritual blindness, the hardness of heart exhibited by the Pharisees. But Jesus did literally restore sight to the blind. I respect Mom's intentions. She didn't want me to become disheartened toward Jesus, or develop bitterness toward my literal blindness when in my innocence, I prayed for Jesus to restore my sight and nothing happened.

So in the years that followed, I rarely thought about whether I would wish to see one day, and when I did, it was more in terms of mere curiosity than a real longing to see. I think the word normal is such a funny word. It is defined as "conforming to an expected standard," but everyone's life is unique in some way. Normal means something different to everyone. My peers, who could see making them "normal" by society's definition would be fascinated by how I could read and write braille. To me, braille is normal, but I would find myself fascinated by the tiny wrinkles made by the pens of my peers on the pages of their spiral notebooks. If we were sharing a desk for a group project or something, I sometimes couldn't help reaching over and sliding my fingers along those lines of tiny wrinkles wondering how they can read and write a language that looks so complicated. Not understanding my fascination because print is normal for them, they would often move their notebook saying, "sorry my notebook was in your way."

Another mantra emphasized by the disability community is to not let the disability define you, and to an extent, I agree. No one with any kind of disability should let people tell them they cannot do something, cannot pursue a dream because of their disability. More than at any other time in history, technological innovations have opened so many doors for people with disabilities. But I have often wondered if in some ways, I would be a different person if I could see. I often think about how interesting it would be if I could clone myself, and then be a fly on the wall and watch her grow up, just to find out to what extent my personality is influenced by my blindness. Would she enjoy watching and participating in sports, or would she, like me find the cacophony of screaming fans, whistles and buzzers obnoxious, even if she could see what was going on with the game? Would she still find museums boring even if she could see what was behind the glass? Would she enjoy helping Mom select a paint color and be excited about how clean and cheery the newly painted room looks, or would she, like me, groan when Mom wanted to re-paint a room because all she would notice is the stinky paint fumes, and the annoyance of having to move about carefully for a few days so as not to accidentally touch the wet paint, or stub her toe or bang her shin on the furniture that had to be re-arranged for the project?

When I was in middle school, a close friend who had to endure bullying confided in me that she loved having me for a friend because I didn't cast judgment about her physical appearance. This warmed my heart, and most likely, I wouldn't have said anything mean to her if I could see as kindness toward others was engrained in my siblings and me. But would my clone, whose personality would be identical to mine except for her ability to see, reveal that my heart wasn't really as pure as my blindness allowed it to be?

With no concept of physical appearance, I never rebelled, trusting my parents to choose respectable clothing for me, and accepting their guidance when they taught me how to comb my hair. But would my clone have chosen to rebel, wearing short skirts, dreadlocks, maybe even a nose piercing or tattoo?

But all these questions really aren't important in the grand scheme of life, just curiosities to daydream about. Blindness is normal for me, and I live a fulfilled life.

In 2015 while taking a walk with my dad one summer evening, I met Eda, a neighbor who was one of Jehovah's Witnesses, and out of genuine curiosity dating back to childhood when Jehovah's Witnesses would knock on our door, I said yes when she asked if I would be interested in a weekly bible study. I didn't become a Jehovah's Witness, as much of their theology I disagreed with. But studying with them deepened my own faith in incredible ways, and one belief that both of our faiths share, although mainstream Christianity does not emphasize as much, is that Christ will return and all disabilities will be healed. Given my lifelong indoctrination with positive attitudes toward my disability, I was conflicted at first as to how I should feel when Eda talked so passionately about this. Part of me wanted to reprimand Eda for implying that my disability was a problem that would be cured one day, when I was living a happy fulfilled life. And yet, that excitement at the prospect of sight being restored from when I heard that story from the Gospel of John, returned, this time multiplied exponentially as it dawned on me this story was more than just a metaphor. In spite of myself, I found myself verbalizing to Eda and her friend Jane, daydreams of running with both hands swinging at my side, no longer needing to hold on to a white cane, guide dog or sighted person to guide me, daydreams of exciting solo excursions to wherever the spirit led me, again no longer needing the assistance of a sighted person. Was my self-esteem lower than I thought? What would other people with disabilities think if I confided in them the freedom I imagined experiencing if my disability could be healed?

A few months later in a training meeting at the Social Security disability firm where I was a paralegal, an attorney was explaining that if there is strong medical evidence that a person's disability could be cured, but the person chooses not to get the necessary treatment, they could be denied disability. On one level, this makes sense. But it also made me wonder, if a cure for my disability were discovered, would I have a choice whether to receive it? On the surface, of course it would be my choice. No one can handcuff me and drag me to the hospital for the stem cell infusion or chip implant that could restore my sight. I can empathize with the perspective that taxpayers should not have to pay welfare to someone whose disability could be cured. I am a bit of a prideful person who for several years didn't even want to apply for disability since I am college educated and capable of working. Since there is no cure for my blindness right now, I was able to find an employer willing to accommodate me, assigning the visual aspects of the job to others. But business people are always talking about efficiency. Would any employer still accommodate me if I chose not to be cured? Thus, practically speaking, I may not have much choice. With my disability benefits cut off, and business no longer interested in making accommodations, choosing not to take the cure would mean choosing poverty. Recognizing this risk, I think I would still choose not to take the cure. I never rebelled when it came to dress and hairstyle, but I love the idea of rebelling when it matters. I want to live in a society where people are accepted as they are, where diversity is cherished. I have nothing against people who see things differently, especially those whose disability began later in life when it wouldn't have formed a core part of their identity, shaped their personality. But I wouldn't want to send a message to young people whose disabilities cannot yet be cured that, "for now you can hold your head high, enjoy the opportunity you have to be an ambassador, but if a cure is found, you are going to have to cave to the pressure of taxpayers and businesses, conform to society's standard for normal in the name of financial security."

In addition to financial concerns, I hesitate to have my disability cured in this life because in regaining my sight, my life would lose some of its richness. Don't get me wrong. Not every day of life as a blind person is sunny. In fact, life as a blind person can sometimes be a real pain in the ass. It took me hours longer to complete math homework than my peers, especially when the assignments involved graphs or geometric figures. When I flirted with the idea of law school in 2013, I couldn't believe the hours of paperwork I had to fill out proving I was blind to get the LSAT in braille. Would a sighted person really request the LSAT in braille just for the heck of it? And despite growing up with parents and teachers who had me chanting "yes I can!" long before Barack Obama, it is hard not to have a crisis of confidence when you are looking for employment, and every company's website has that canned statement that they don't discriminate on the basis of disability, and yet all their job postings have at least one essential duty that is visual in nature, like taking photos, or overseeing layout and design.

But I cherish the many wonderful moments my disability has brought about. These include hillarious misconceptions which sighted people take for granted, like how until middle school, I thought that airplanes flew by flapping their wings like birds, as well as commical moments of irony like the time I got a letter pre-approving me for an auto loan. Blind people do not have supersonic hearing, but the brains of people who are blind compensate by being more attuned to the other senses, so I have been known to hear or smell things that others miss. Being blind also has a few perks, like being able to read when it is pitch dark, and being able to have a guide dog who has been an unofficial therapy dog as well, keeping me smiling when life got tough. But most importantly, I have enjoyed the opportunities I have had to enlighten people by showing them there is more than one way to complete tasks like reading, writing and traveling.

In the story of the blind man from the gospel of John, the apostles ask Jesus if this man is blind due to sin by him or his parents, to which Jesus responds in John 9:3 that neither him nor his parents have sinned. His blindness happened so that God's work could be displayed in his life. For this blind man, God's work was displayed through healing him so that he could expose the spiritual blindness of the pharisees. For my life, I believe God has a purpose in me remaining blind to show what a rich, fulfilling life is possible even when you cannot meet society's standard of normal, to be a friend to those that everyone else puts down because of physical appearance. And yet as it says in Ecclesiastes, to everything there is a season, so in those moments when being blind can be a real pain in the ass, I love to daydream of a day when I might be able to run with both arms swinging at my side.

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The first seeds of awareness that seminary school might be in my future were planted every time we went to Elmbrook Church, where I would be on the edge of my seat, fully engaged with the academic nature of each sermon that brought the Bible to life, and then fertilized one Sunday in 2013 when the senior pastor at the time remarked that as a child, he was terrified of public speaking, and yet God called him to be a pastor, proving that with God, anything is possible. I even visited Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, the school I now attend which at that time had an extension site at Elmbrook Church. But after that visit, I determined I wasn't ready to commit to seminary school at that time. For one thing, I wasn't mature enough at the time to know what I wanted to study, or what kind of career God was calling me to. Even though the senior pastor's testimony got me thinking about career possibilities I had never considered before, I still wasn't feeling called to the demanding career of a pastor. In addition, I was embarrassed when as part of the visit, my mom and I had lunch with an admissions counselor. My family always said grace before dinner at home, but felt awkward praying in public, so at restaurants or school cafeterias, we would just dig right in. So I was embarrassed when I had already started eating, and the admissions counselor wanted to say grace. Maybe I wasn't even "religious enough" to fit into the culture of seminary school at that present moment. So I decided to focus on gaining real-world work experience.

During the years I worked at the Social Security disability law firm, I never explicitly talked about God with people outside family or Bible study. Most of my coworkers were not religious, and on the rare occasion when I saw opportunities to mention my faith, like when someone randomly confided to their fear of death on a slow day, I always chickened out, unable to find the right words. But my coworkers respected me for my compassion when handling clients, and one woman told me she admired how she never heard me use profanity. Sometimes people would even apologize to me when they used profanity, as if I were their pastor. But Mom told me that living by example is the best way to attract people to the Gospel, and she said her parents used to say, "if you have to tell someone you are Christian, maybe your faith isn't authentic. It should be obvious just by the way you live."

By this point in the book, readers who don't know me intimately likely have an inflated view of me, so I think it is time to quell that and confess here that while my example was respected at work, and while I want to live a life that counts for God, by no means is my behavior always becoming of a student in seminary school. Despite intellectually knowing that God has a purpose for everything, including my blindness, sometimes I find myself envious of the freedom and autonomy sighted people take for granted. More on that in the next chapter. Somewhat related to that, despite knowing how blessed I am to live with my parents, especially during this pandemic as I witnessed friends who live alone spiral into depression and anxiety, sometimes I find myself frustrated with God that I am not out in the world living the adult life, contributing to the world like my siblings. Because I don't pray often enough about this, this frustration sometimes manifests itself in angry outbursts at my parents which I always regret after the fact.

But while I didn't talk about faith, and still don't live out my faith as fully as I should, in recent years I have been filled with inspiration to write about it on my blog. In 2009, I started a blog to chronicle my experience training with Gilbert and navigating college life. In those days, I rarely mentioned my faith. Between June 2013 and February 2018, I did not write at all on my blog. In 2014 and 2015, I felt so devoid of purpose in my life that I couldn't find the motivation to write, and in 2016 and 2017, I was too emotionally drained from my job to write. But looking back on when I felt inspired to resurrect the blog in 2018, I noticed that my writing had transformed. I felt compelled to share my faith in most of my posts, and on a couple occasions, I would be hit with waves of inspiration to write about faith as it relates to politics, current events or mental health in our society, waves which were so intense that I couldn't sleep until these thoughts were written.

In 2019, I started feeling restless, longing for a job that was more intellectually stimulating, where I could better utilize the gifts God has given me, and I sensed God nudging me to revisit the idea of taking seminary courses. But since school work takes longer for me, I knew I would need to quit my job to do well, and it took a lot of sweat and tears to get the job I had. Life was humming along smoothly, and I just couldn't bring myself to resign. But then the pandemic hit, and my family did not want me going to work given that I have underlying medical conditions. I had no idea when it would be safe to return. My manager said he could hold my position for as long as necessary, but after much prayer, I realized the pandemic was just the kick I needed to respond to God's call. So on April 24, 2020, I officially resigned from the law firm, and now here I am, about to start my second year of seminary school. Like everyone, the forced isolation of this pandemic has driven me crazy to some extent, and occasionally, I find my mind racing down a rabbit hole of anxiety over whether resigning from the law firm was a smart move for my future financial security. But this isolation is different from 2012 because seminary courses have given my days structure and purpose, and even on days when I feel lonely or anxious, it only takes a little prayer to get me back on track. I think the isolation of 2012 prepared me well for this season by strengthening my patience and trust in God. So while this pandemic forced many people to cope with isolation and uncertainty for the first time in their lives, I recognize this pandemic as a season that will one day be a distant memory, a patch of choppy water in a river that will smooth out. As for the uncertainty, I don't know what direction my life will take after completing my seminary education, but I trust that God has a plan.

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It is one of many Sunday mornings growing up. Most of the family is in the car, which is idling in the driveway. I say most because we were always waiting on one pokey sibling.

BEEEP! Dad lays on the car horn.

"Where is he?" Dad would mutter angrily.

"I don't know, but I'm tired of always being late," Mom said with an exasperated sigh, "I almost don't even want to go if we cannot get there on time."

That would have been fine with us kids. We almost always went to the 11:00 mass, also referred to as the drunkard's mass because it was the latest mass offered. But even 11:00 seemed early when we were enjoying a leisurely breakfast--Mom often made her family-famous, fluffy waffles on Sunday morning--and we would have loved to stay in lazy mode. But alas, my parents felt it was their duty to raise us Catholic, and so they drove us to Saint Dominic's church, figuratively kicking, and literally screaming at each other about whose fault it was that we were late again, or why someone had to take a cold shower because one sibling or another used up the hot water.

Once we arrived at church, the atmosphere, from the aroma of incense to the organ playing calmed us down so that by the time we took our seats, no one would have known we had been fighting just minutes earlier. But my siblings and I loved it when sometimes, the usher would tell us there were no seats left in the main sanctuary and direct us to some pews in the hallway. Mass was piped out to the hallway so we could still participate, but since it was the hallway, my siblings and I felt less guilty about horsing around.

During the week, my siblings went to Saint Dominic's school, but because of my special needs, I had to go to public school. All of my siblings switched to public school for high school, but the closest sibling in age to me was my brother Brice who was four years older than me, so he graduated high school as I graduated eighth grade. As a child, this sometimes made me sad. I would see friends meet up with their siblings to ride home together on the bus, or say hi to a sibling in the hallway and I would wonder what it would be like to have a sibling in the same school, to be in the same world as them. As it was, I sometimes felt isolated. Saint Dominic's let out an hour earlier than Burleigh Elementary, so my siblings were always home and well immersed in after school snacks and a television show by the time I got home, and occasionally, they would have off when I had school. I always felt especially left out at weekend sports tournaments or social events. There was a tight-knit group of parents talking about Saint Dominic's life, while my older siblings and the other kids played together. And then there was me, not part of the club, and thus not sure how to fit in.

While my siblings received their Catholic education in Religion class during their regular school day, public school students like me attended CFC (Catholic Formation Class) for an hour and a half one evening a week. Saint Dominic's was not able to provide the workbooks for CFC in Braille, and family life was too hectic to deal with figuring out how to get them in Braille on our own, but I would listen along as other students were called on to read out loud from these books, and each year during elementary school, either my sister or another older kid would be appointed to assist me with visual activities, and to take me to the restroom as my medicine often wore off around CFC time. By middle school, I was able to just partner with another classmate for visual activities, and in middle school, CFC met on Sunday mornings when my medicine was more reliable.

If you had known me as a child, you never would have guessed that one day, I would be taking seminary courses. I was the typical kid who found church tedious, from the Catholic rituals of standing and kneeling, to the sermons that when you are little, you actually believe could last forever, and you could become the age of Grandma sitting there in the pew, and the priest would still be droning. I remember one Sunday when I was six or seven years old, I was in a particularly bad mood and as we were walking out of church, I said nice and loud "I hate church!" Unbeknownst to me, right as I said that, the priest was walking by. My mom was a registered nurse and at the time worked at a rehab facility, which sometimes required her to work weekends. This was one of those weekends she had to work, and my sister couldn't wait to rat me out to Mom when she got home that evening.

To keep myself from going crazy when I was really young, I would sometimes pass the time by taking a hymn book from the pew rack in front of me and counting the pages. These books were made of those thin, onion skin pages that would stick together, so separating the pages kept my little fingers occupied even longer. My parents never took the book away or reprimanded me for this. I guess they figured hey, she's being quiet. I think it served the same purpose for me as the fidget spinner for kids today. As I got older, I followed in the footsteps of my older siblings and just daydreamed. Occasionally, Dad would light-heartedly quiz us about the sermon, and our covers would be blown when we couldn't think fast enough. But my parents generally didn't make a big deal of our inattentiveness in church, especially since Mom would often catch Dad dozing off in church and have to elbow him to wake up. They took us to church out of a sense of duty, but they viewed the daily example of Christian values at home as more important than that one hour a week anyway.

I wasn't all that fond of CFC either. The workbooks were boring, and we had homework, which infuriated me because I thought I got enough homework during the regular school day. As another example of how irreverent I used to be, each week in CFC, someone was assigned to bring a treat to share halfway through class. Every teacher would have us say a brief prayer of thanks to God before we ate, which normally I didn't mind. Our family said grace before dinner each night too, so I was used to that. But one year, we had a teacher who wanted us to recite the Nicene Creed before snack time. I remember finding this incredibly annoying because this is such a long prayer when you are eight or nine years old and hungry. But externally, I was a good girl so I kept my mouth shut. But one week, a mischievous boy in the class echoed my sentiments out loud, and I remember smiling at his audacity.

Although I did not take church or CFC seriously as a child, looking back I realize that all along, God was working on my heart, nudging me toward a personal faith commitment. Starting in about third grade, Dad started going to Indiana once a month to help his parents with yard work. After selling their motel business in 1986, Grandma and Grandpa built a big house on a five-acre lot, not anticipating the difficulty maintaining this property as they aged. Sometimes my siblings also came along, but since they were teenagers by that point, Dad allowed them to stay home most of the time. But I loved these monthly trips. I loved the one-on-one time with Dad, driving through Chicago singing along to oldies on the radio as we drove down on Saturday mornings, and then listening to 60 Minutes on a news station as we drove home Sunday evenings. When we got there, Grandma doted on me, letting me eat whatever unhealthy treats I wanted for lunch, and taking me for rides around their property, with me sitting next to her on a motorized scooter. During this time, Grandma also taught me to pray the rosary, and praying the rosary together became a part of every monthly visit.

In one sense, I hated praying the rosary, especially the tedium of having to pray the Hail Mary fifty times. But I never protested when Grandma wanted to pray the rosary because I think on some level, I actually enjoyed it, as the repetition of these prayers quieted my mind, gave me a sense of peace which I now recognize as God's presence. I also think something in my heart was stirred by witnessing my Grandma's dedication to her faith, the sincerity with which she prayed even though I did not feel drawn to God yet myself.

Then one Wednesday night during my freshman year of high school, I was sitting at the kitchen table working on homework, listening to Dateline which my parents were watching in the living room. That night, the show featured the authors of the Left Behind Series, and the longer I listened to their interview, I had this strange urge to get ahold of these books as soon as possible. So that Friday after school, Mom took me to the library where I checked out the first book of the series which was available on tape. Just a couple chapters into the book, I had decided I wanted my life to count for Christ, and my passion only grew over the following year as I obtained and listened to all the books in the series. Skeptics might say I was "scared straight" by these books, and maybe I was a little. But more than that, I think that until reading these books, I just never gave any thought to that line in the Nicene Creed which says, "He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end." It wasn't until reading these books that something clicked in my mind and I realized the story of Christianity wasn't a story that ended long ago which we merely drew moral lessons from on Sunday mornings. Jesus was coming again. The story was still unfolding, and I was a part of it, and this was thrilling to me.

I found myself taking mass much more seriously, and as a "baby Christian", I had a couple thrilling situations where I said a prayer during a difficult circumstance, and I felt a "peace that passes understanding" and could hear God's voice in my conscience guiding me through the situation. My favorite character in the Left Behind series was Buck Williams, a journalist who was "left behind" but repented, left his position at a prestigious newspaper, and started an underground publication exposing the truth about the anti-Christ. Although I didn't mention this on my college application, nor on my application for a mentorship program my junior year of high school where I had the opportunity to intern with the Waukesha Freeman, a local newspaper, Buck Williams was largely behind my decision to study journalism. I enjoyed writing, had won a couple essay contests, and was told by family and teachers that I was a talented writer. Maybe I too could expose the truth, and in that way make my life count for God!

My freshman year of high school also marked a wonderful turning point in accessible technology when I received my first BrailleNote, and the following year, I learned about, and subsequently subscribed to Bookshare.org, a website where people who are blind or dyslexic can download thousands of digital books to listen to or read in braille. My subscription to Bookshare meant that for the first time, I could download the Bible in braille and read it for myself. I could have ordered a braille Bible as a child, but given that it takes up six feet of shelf space, I would not have been able to bring it to CFC to look up Bible verses, and probably would never have cracked it open at home either given that I hadn't made a personal faith decision. As an enthusiastic baby Christian, I had noble intentions of reading the entire Bible cover to cover. I remember telling my mom how the Bible feels like that movie you have seen bits and pieces of at different times, but you have never managed to sit down and see the whole movie so it never fully makes sense. After school, and even during free moments during school, I would open up my Bible, and in the first week or so of having my own Bible, had gotten through Genesis and Exodus. I have since learned that this noble intention is shared by many baby Christians, as is the reality of ultimately falling off the wagon as without guidance, the Bible quickly becomes overwhelming as it is comprised of several different genres, and is not actually arranged in perfect chronological order. But I still cherished just having it on my BrailleNote, and knew someday I would get back to it.

Shortly after I started reading the Left Behind Series, Mom started reading it herself, and it inspired her to re-dedicate herself to faith as well. When I started middle school, she signed onto a weekend program where she worked twelve hour days at the hospital every Saturday and Sunday, and then could be off all week. This schedule worked wonderfully with school schedules, but it meant she was rarely able to go to church. But she and Mrs. Lillie heard about a dynamic Women's Bible study program that met at Elmbrook Church, a large nondenominational church on Tuesday mornings. I couldn't wait to get home from school on Tuesdays to hear all about Mom's Bible study that morning, and in this way became more aware of the Protestant world. It seemed like there was a zeal for faith that was lacking in the Catholic tradition, and began to question Catholic practices like confessing sins to a priest rather than directly to Jesus, or reciting scripted prayers rather than just praying from the heart. It also bothered me that all too often during mass, I would hear a reading that I found confusing or challenging, and yearned for a sermon that addressed it. But instead the priest would go off on a tangent that had nothing to do with the readings. This was not unique to Saint Dominic's. I noticed this when I occasionally visited other Catholic churches or watched Catholic masses on television. The age at which young people receive the sacrament of Confirmation and are subsequently recognized as full adult members of the church, is determined by each individual diocese. In the Milwaukee diocese where I grew up, the sacrament took place junior year of high school. As my junior year approached, I felt a little disingenuous going through with the final year of preparation for Confirmation, but while my parents said they would respect boundaries and allow us to make our own faith decisions as adults, they wanted us all to go through with Confirmation. I decided to take the sacrament seriously, framing it in my mind as a commitment to follow Christ, even if I eventually chose a Protestant church. I even asked Grandma to be my Confirmation sponsor. She was honored and delighted, but in retrospect, given how upset she was when I did eventually switch to a Protestant church, maybe I should have chosen someone else. But at that age, I didn't fully appreciate how much it meant to Grandma that the family was not just Christian, but Catholic. We are still on speaking terms, and I know she loves me. Every time I see her, she gives me a big hug and says "God bless you sweetie." But we no longer say the rosary together, and we have an unspoken agreement between us to just not talk about religion.

On Sunday August 31, 2008, during the one week I lasted in the college dorm, an older student who had been showing me the ropes of college invited me to Elmbrook Church with her, and I jumped at the chance. I loved everything from the livelier modern music, to the unscripted prayers, and even the sermon. Although it was longer than the Catholic homily, it didn't seem long because it was so inspiring. Instead of a random tangent, it was a teaching directly related to the Bible. I couldn't wait to go back, but it was awhile before I was able to return. Although returning home was the best decision overall, I kicked myself internally every Sunday morning, wondering if I could have persevered and stuck things out in the dorm because moving back home meant I no longer had a ride to Elmbrook Church. Mom still worked weekends at that time, and Dad was not comfortable leaving the Catholic church. We didn't know of anyone in our neighborhood who went to Elmbrook Church, and cab fare would have cost a fortune. So I resigned myself to the reality that for the time being, I would have to go to Saint Dominic's if I wanted to go to church. In 2011, Mom got a new job that no longer required her to work weekends, so she was able to go to church again. For the sake of family unity, Mom was not comfortable completely leaving the Catholic church, but Mom and I would attend Elmbrook Church periodically, and every time we left feeling inspired and sensing God's presence. After every visit to Elmbrook, the contrast between that experience, and the Catholic tradition became more pronounced to the point that shortly after college graduation when I expressed to my mom how I was seriously considering trying to live on my own again in an apartment closer to Elmbrook Church, Mom confided that she really wanted to switch to Elmbrook Church permanently herself. So in March 2013, we took the membership class and officially switched to Elmbrook Church.

In 2012, I graduated from Carroll University with a Bachelors degree in Communication with a journalism emphasis. But during my college years, the economy, and the journalism landscape changed and I could not find a job. But that summer, I also suffered debilitating migraines and fatigue, and tests revealed I had a severe case of Celiac disease. Mom pointed out that perhaps it was by God's grace that I hadn't found a job because I would have had to miss a lot of work with all the migraines and doctor visits I had that summer, and I would have started out with a bad work reputation. During the thick of my illness, I agreed with her, but when my symptoms resolved with a strict gluten free diet and I still couldn't find a job, the sense of isolation, having no job or school to give my life routine and a sense of purpose, drove me crazy. I think I prayed a few times, but when I didn't get the instantaneous response from God I had as a "baby Christian" in high school, depression started to set in and I found myself questioning whether God really had a purpose for me. Was all my hard work all these years for nothing?

In the summer of 2013, the Wisconsin Department of Workforce Development helped me land an internship with Audio & Braille Literacy Enhancement, a local charity that provides braille and audio books and classroom materials to blind people in the community, and during this internship, I met a blind woman who suggested I look into paralegal courses because while she didn't pursue a paralegal career, she took some classes, enjoyed them and said it seemed like an accessible field for blind people. After reading a paper I wrote my freshman year of college in which I argued that U.S. soldiers in Vietnam should have refused to carry out the Mi Lai massacre because conscience takes precedence over orders from a superior, my parents thought I would make a great lawyer. While my parents may have been right, I wasn't passionate enough about law to commit to the expense and academic rigor of law school. But a paralegal certificate from the local technical college was a lot more financially reasonable, and could be completed in one year. Maybe I could still put some of my writing skills to use assisting a lawyer. So in 2014, I earned a paralegal certificate, and in April 2015, I was glowing with joy as I landed a job at the Social Security disability law firm where I would work until March 2020. But this joy was short-lived. A few months into the job, I realized the software the company used wasn't as accessible as I thought it would be, and I often made mistakes that drew angry calls from clients, and even caused hardship for the attorneys on a few occasions. Again, I was gripped by intense depression and anxiety. Pride kept me from being fully honest with the manager about how much I was struggling, and while I applied and even interviewed for other jobs with no success, something kept me from quitting. Just when I felt like I had reached the end of my patience, a sermon or a conversation with a friend would give me encouragement to get through one more day. God rewarded my patience in December 2016 when my manager gave me a simpler position that was far more accessible, and in February 2017, the manager allowed me to switch to a part-time schedule.

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I am in first grade, and it is toward the beginning of the school year. The classroom consists of six short round tables, around which are four tiny plastic chairs. I sit in one of these chairs, and next to me in an adult chair sits Mrs. Zahn, the full-time teacher's aid that helps me keep up with the class.

"Hi Allison," my friend Katie says as she takes her place at the table.

"Hi Katie," I say.

"How does she know it's me?" Katie asks Mrs. Zahn in amazement.

"I don't know. Ask her," Mrs. Zahn says.

So she asks me, and I say, "I can tell by the sound of your voice."

Later it is time to read a book. As the teacher passes out books to the other students, books which I reach for and stroke in amazement as they look like blank pages to me, Mrs. Zahn places my book in front of me. My version of the same book is on thick cardstock-type 8.5 by 11 pages of raised dots, spiral-bound with plastic binding.

"How does she read that?" another classmate asks, fascinated.

"I don't know," says Mrs. Zahn, "Ask her."

A few days later, Mrs. Becky comes to pull me out of class for Occupational therapy.

"Use your cane," she gently reminds me as she trails behind me as I make my way to her room. Sometimes, I would walk forgetting to swing my cane properly, resulting in me bumping into doors or tripping over boots left outside lockers.

"It looks like a class of fifth graders is coming our way," Mrs. Becky said a few minutes into our walk. "Let's stop and let them pass."

Sure enough, I hear a cacophony of footsteps and whispered chatter of a class walking single-file behind their teacher on their way to lunch or a "special" class like art or music. As I was taught, I stop and tuck my cane in close to my body so as not to trip anyone, and wait the way a car waits for a train to pass. But instead of walking past quietly as I thought they would, the passing train of students calls out "Hi Allison!" "Hi Allison!" "Hi Allison!" one after the other. I cannot respond to each hi fast enough! When the class has passed, I ask Mrs. Becky in bewilderment, "How did they know who I was? They are not in my class!"

"You're famous," she replied with a smile in her tone of voice, "everyone in this school knows about you because you are the first blind person to go to this school." The following year, a reporter from our local newspaper followed me for the day and wrote an article about me.

It is a Monday morning in October of my third grade year, and over the weekend, the teacher had graded our first Social Studies test which we had taken on Friday. The test covered basic geography concepts like the names of the seven continents and four oceans, the differences between a map and a globe. I got my test back at the same time as the rest of the class, but before handing them back, the teacher showed my grade to Mrs. Zahn, who affixed a little braille sticker in the upper right corner of my answer sheet with the grade on it so I could see it for myself. I had written my answers in Braille, and Mrs. Zahn transcribed them verbatim into print for the teacher. My grade on this first test was a C.

Third grade was the first year of "real school" with letter grades, and this was the first major test of the year. When I saw that C, I didn't think anything of it. I knew what the letter grades meant and although of course, an A would have been better, a C meant average. I was okay with being average. I had heard my parents yell at my older brothers when they occasionally brought home Ds, but they seemed okay with Cs. So I wasn't expecting the reaction I got from Mrs. Reich when I saw her later that day. Her reaction resembled the plot of Ms. Nelson Is Missing, one of my favorite children's books from the previous year.

This perpetually cheerful teacher who rewarded me with M&Ms on Fridays based on how many braille pages I read, who took me on fun field trips to the mall or the grocery store, had suddenly become Ms. Viola Swamp. After an interrogation in which I admitted I had not studied for the test as I was supposed to, with the flimsy excuse that we were celebrating Mom's birthday that night, and some relatives came to visit, she said, "I don't care what you have going on at home in the evening, how much fun you are having. I don't care if the whole house is full of company for a party. You are going to go upstairs and study. School is only going to get tougher in the years ahead, and if you don't study, you are going to be in trouble."

It is Monday June 11, 2000, the second-to-last day of fifth grade. My work ethic hadn't improved much since third grade. Just a couple months earlier, the class was reading Johnny Tremaine. Normally I loved to read, and have been known to stay up late into the night, well aware I would be tired the next day, but unable to put down a good book. But I found Johnny Tremaine excruciatingly long and boring, so one week, I just just couldn't stand it anymore and stopped reading. That year, I had a new aid, Mrs. Hobson, as Mrs. Zahn was transferred to a younger student. She would be my aid from fifth grade all the way through first semester of my senior year of high school. The fifth grade teacher was a big fan of pop quizzes, and because Mrs. Hobson received things ahead of time to get them in braille for me, she knew there was going to be a quiz on the chapters I neglected to read. So in an act of mercy she told me she would never show again for as long as she was my aid, an act of mercy she reminded me of years later too, she pulled me out of class for a marathon catch-up session. Overall though, my grades were decent, and I had met all the requirements to graduate fifth grade. Tomorrow, there would be a small ceremony in the school gym, and then it was off to middle school. But on June 11, during a period of quiet work time to tie up the last academic loose ends, I heard the principal walk in and whisper something to the teacher, then come up to my desk. For a moment, my heart skipped a beat. Was I in trouble?

"Hi Allison," Mr. Zahn whispered, "I just wanted to tell you congratulations on your graduation tomorrow. I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you," I said, a little caught off guard but grinning ear-to-ear.

"You were an experiment, did you know that?" he asked. I don't remember what I said, but I remember being puzzled by this statement.

"You are the first blind person to ever attend this school district," he explained. I had not known that. I knew I was the only blind student currently in the school, but at that age, I was too young to grasp the significance of the Americans with Disabilities Act, or the decision my parents and teachers had made on my behalf.

It's funny to think how when I was a kid, it seemed as though school would be my routine for eternity. Now that this chapter of my life is over, it feels as though it passed in a flash. But these snapshots stand out in my memory and illustrate my school experience well.

I feel so blessed that I wasn't sent to a boarding school for the blind, not only because I was spared the heartache of having to say goodbye to my family every week, but also because I cannot imagine that I would have felt as natural, at ease in a sighted world as I do today. In fact, I actually feel more at ease in the sighted world than with a gathering of blind people, and even forget what it means to be blind. As a funny example of what I mean, once when I was in high school, I was invited by a friend to a meeting of the Wisconsin Association of Blind Students at the state convention for the National Federation of the Blind. We needed to vote on something--I don't even remember what it was now--so the student president said she was going to pass around a bag, and asked us to throw in a dime if we wanted to vote one way, and a nickel to vote the other way. When the bag got to me, I put in my coin, but when I held the bag out to the next person, he didn't take it.

My first thought was "hello! are you awake!" before remembering, "oh yeah, all these people are blind like me!" So I tapped the person on the shoulder and told him I was passing him the bag, shaking it so he could find it. But my interaction with sighted people is so natural. They see me and seamlessly put items right into my hand. They see me reaching for them and intuitively take the item from my hand. When I went to these events, I could understand the allure of going to a school for the blind when I casually chatted with other students about technology or braille without having to preface anything with explanation, or to not have to explain your disability and the accommodations you need to teachers unfamiliar with blindness. I know some very successful older blind adults who would have gone to the state school for the blind growing up, and they are very confident in the sighted world and have even mentored me on how I could advocate better for myself. This important skill must have been built into the curriculum, or else they did a great job figuring it out on their own. But I feel so blessed to have gotten the chance to advocate for myself at such an early age when Mrs. Zahn responded to the questions of my classmates with, "I don't know. Ask her!" Whether or not my classmates remember these interactions today, I don't know. But maybe by having me in class, they at least subconsciously benefitted, by seeing that blind people are no less intelligent than anyone else and can speak for themselves. I have heard blind adults lament that if a sighted person is with them, there is still a segment of the public that will direct questions to the sighted person, assuming this person is the blind person's guardian. For me, having the opportunity to practice speaking for myself at a young age meant that as I got older and was progressively given more responsibility advocating for myself with teachers, I was confident and comfortable doing so, and by the time I started college and had to advocate for myself completely on my own, it felt as natural as breathing.

Mrs. Zahn also emphasized the importance of precise language. In third grade, my best friend was Amber and we liked to hold hands and walk together to "special" classes. Sometimes, the teacher would want me to walk on my own to practice orientation and mobility, so Amber was asked to seek permission first. But the first time when she asked Mrs. Zahn "can I walk Allison to Music class?" Mrs. Zahn gently corrected her and asked that Amber say "can I walk WITH Allison?" I overheard this conversation and was puzzled about why Mrs. Zahn wanted Amber to phrase the question this way. She explained to me how she didn't want my peers to view me like a pet. They didn't need to walk me to class like a dog. I was perfectly capable of walking to class by myself, but they were welcome to walk with me as friends. As an adult, I find it disheartening when people mock the idea of political correctness. Words really do matter, and just a small, seemingly petty difference in wording can have profound implications for how a demographic is perceived and treated.

Overall, I remember Burleigh Elementary School as a warm nurturing environment that emphasized kindness and inclusion, so much so that sometimes, I felt like a rockstar! It was not unusual, especially in the early grades to have whole classes say hi to me as they filed down the hallway. There was a small underbelly of bullies that I had to deal with at before-school daycare from third through fifth grade when my parents felt they shouldn't impose on Mrs. Lillie to babysit me when they had to get to work early. When I would try to join in one of their games, I was pointedly ignored, and if I was playing with legos or something they wanted, they would just come up and snatch them away as if I weren't even there. But when the school day actually started and I went to my regular class, it was as if I went to a whole different school. I never lacked peers clamoring to partner with me for an assignment, or friends to play with at recess or sit with for lunch. In first and second grade, I would try to sit off by myself because the cafeteria was so noisy it overwhelmed me and I didn't want to talk. So to ensure I had a healthy social life, I was allowed to stay in the classroom for lunch with three peers. Everyone in the class wanted a turn to eat lunch with me. This began to change in middle school, a phenomenon which I had not anticipated. I had a group of girls I sat with for lunch, and there were many days in which I genuinely enjoyed meaningful conversation with them. But some days, I felt so out of place, even with these friends because I found typical junior high antics like screaming over a cute guy, stupid and annoying. To these girls' credit though, they were extremely respectful in that when I would be startled by an especially piercing shriek, they would apologize to me and try not to act so ridiculous. They couldn't fully resist acting like junior high girls, but I sensed in them a little more maturity, an awareness that they knew they were being obnoxious even if puberty made this behavior hard to resist. Maybe they admired and respected my ability to just smile and eat quietly, staying above it all. Most of these girls were also in choir with me, so I have happy memories with them in choir too.

I feel fortunate in that I was never bullied outright in middle school or high school, but I often felt ignored. Gone were the sweet elementary school days when people clamored to partner with me for a project. In middle school, when the teacher would ask us to find a partner or divide ourselves into groups, it seemed even if I stood up from my desk and walked toward the throng of students with a hand raised like an awkward beggar, asking if anyone would partner with me, I heard only crickets. Sometimes I could get a group's attention and get a lukewarm yes when I asked to join them, but sometimes the teacher would have to help me find a group. If I had to do a group project with two or more people, it felt like there was the rest of the group, a cohesive clique, and then me, just along for the ride like a third wheel. I appreciated the occasional teachers like my seventh grade science teacher who really made sure that the group was interacting with me and giving me a meaningful role in the building of our Rube Goldberg machine. I have met blind people who are very comfortable being loud and assertive, but that was never me. I think I did a great job of advocating for myself when it came to explaining my blindness and the adaptations I used, but I never quite figured out how I was supposed to assert myself in a group that I could tell wasn't really interested in working with me.

In the hall between classes, it was very rare for a student to say hi to me, and if none of my friends were in class with me, I just sat quietly at my desk while it seemed everyone else was chatting during the lag time before class started. In the awkward insecurity of middle school where image is everything, the old lady clothes I had to wear because of my back brace were certainly a hindrance to making a lot of friends, as well as possibly the white cane I swung in front of me, the cart I had to pull behind me to carry my supplies between classes, and the suitcase I had to take home each night because no traditional backpack was large enough for my braille textbooks and 3-inch binders bursting at the seams with my assignments. But these weren't the only factors. In hindsight, I realize I was a bit of a weird kid.

Mrs. Reich started worrying about my social life when I was only in third grade. I showed no interest in popular culture, hadn't seen any of the movies or television shows children my age were talking about, but I still enjoyed playing house with baby dolls.

"Just so you know, when you are twelve, if you invite a friend over and suggest playing with dolls, they will never come over again," Mrs. Reich warned. I did lose interest in dolls on my own shortly thereafter. I enjoyed collecting American Girl dolls for a few more years, not so much to play with but to display and read the books that came with them, but by seventh grade, I had outgrown that too. But when I got to middle school, I still had no interest in popular culture, and after a visit to my grandma's house in sixth grade, I fell in love with old country music from legends like Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, Merl Haggard, Marty Robins and Johnny Cash. As someone who got so much joy from singing that I couldn't get it out of my system in choir, I would sing these old country songs on the bus, and while pulling my cart through the hallways. I guess I figured as long as I look weird, I might as well fully embrace my true personality!

Occasionally, I would have friends over to play braille board games, or card games with a deck of braille cards. It was difficult for me to have friends over because there were no kids my age in our neighborhood, so I would have to coordinate with my parents, the friends and their parents about when was convenient for everyone and who would pick them up and bring them home. But even if there were kids my own age in the neighborhood, since I found most of my peers annoying, and most of my peers probably saw me as the weird blind kid, I still doubt I would have had much interaction with peers after school.

By sophomore year of high school, to my relief, some of my peers were starting to grow up and show a genuine interest in partnering with me, but other factors kept me relatively isolated. In middle school, each grade had the same lunch period, but in high school, lunch periods were not grade specific. There were three lunch periods available, and everyone's lunch period could change each semester based on when it fit into their class schedule. It was very rare that I could find a friend with the same lunch period, and by high school when academic demands were more rigorous in preparation for college, my friends and I often had to cut lunch short to speak with a teacher about an assignment, or in my case, get math tutoring from Mrs. Hobson. After school, homework usually took so long I didn't have time to socialize with friends. I pulled many all-nighters so I could be in the Milwaukee Children's Choir which I would do all over again because it was good for my soul, and I had several close friends in this choir whom I socialized with during the break we always got halfway through rehearsal. But beyond that, I didn't have the time or energy for anything else. So oftentimes, my only interaction with peers was small talk during partner or group assignments, and if there were no such assignments, I could go whole days feeling as though I lived inside a bubble, silently, robotically going from class to class, doing my own thing. Perhaps due to this lack of a social life growing up, I have a little social anxiety now, especially if friends from bible study invite me to their houses. On the other hand, since I am used to being isolated, I think I have fared better in quarantine than many of my peers. Everyone's life has challenges in some form, and I suppose each circumstance has its advantages and disadvantages in the larger context of life.

When I was in middle school, I remember feeling almost betrayed by students I thought were my friends in elementary school, but in retrospect, I hold no bitterness toward them. I have since read studies which show that a child's personality takes shape at about age six, so although I have lost touch with most of them, I sincerely believe that if I met them at a reunion now, they would be the goodhearted people they showed themselves to be in Ms. Gnacinski's class. But I also believe that while character is something innate that cannot be taught, it can be nurtured by adults through activities that encourage kindness and inclusion.

In first grade, every student got the chance to be "star of the week." When it was your turn, you brought in a poster to promote yourself. My mom helped me create a poster with pictures of me reading braille, using my cane, playing on the swing set in our yard. I made braille labels which Mom glued next to each picture. The "star of the week" also got a few classroom privileges, like the opportunity to call out groups when we needed to line up, and to sit on the comfy couch in the library corner during story time rather than on the floor. To practice writing letters, the rest of the class sent "fan mail" to the star of the week, letters complementing what they are good at and why they make a great friend. I remember figuring that when it was my turn, my classmates would write print letters that Mrs. Zahn or my mom would read to me. My classmates didn't know braille after all. So I was amazed when I noticed that week that Mrs. Zahn was taking students aside one by one and helping them transcribe their letters into braille for me. It felt like Christmas morning when I received that bag of 23 letters from my classmates, all of which I could read for myself. Similar activities like this occurred all through elementary school.

Incidentally, sophomore year of high school when it seemed like classmates were more receptive to partnering with me, everyone was required to take a speech class. In this class, we talked about communication in general and the many different means of communication. The teacher invited a guest speaker, the teacher for students who are deaf or hard of hearing who showed the class a little sign language. The teacher also asked me to give a presentation on braille, and it seemed like after this presentation, more classmates paid attention to me. But in middle school, the No Child Left Behind initiative had just been enacted, and all the teachers were freaking out. So much time was redirected toward making sure we met academic standards set by the state, even learning testing strategies, that there was no time for things like presentations on braille. Even if there had been, I am not saying it would have eliminated the teenage insecurity that resulted in my exclusion, but even when the seventh grade science teacher reminded my group to include me in the Rube Goldberg project, their acceptance of me seemed genuine. I think teenagers just get so caught up in their own world, their insecurity that they just need to be reminded to stop and take notice of people with disabilities. Education reform is a complex issue I don't want to get into in this book, nor is it a career I am interested in, but I think society would benefit from education reform that incorporates into the curriculum age-appropriate activities for all grade levels that encourage acceptance and inclusion of people with disabilities.

To the extent possible, I was held to the same academic standards as my peers. In elementary school, I attended the regular gym class with my peers, but also had on-on-one instruction with a gym teacher twice a week. Starting in middle school, it was determined that many of the gym requirements for the sighted students were inappropriate for me, so I had gym class with the Special Ed students. I think the only academic requirement I was exempted from was high school chemistry because it was very visual in nature, and I had no interest in any career that would involve Chemistry anyway. In exchange, I took Earth Science, also known as Rocks for Jocks. I was walking to this class one day when the wrestling coach with whom I was casually acquainted because he was friends with Mrs. Hobson, said hi and casually asked me what class I was headed to. When I told him I was headed to Earth Science, he said, "Ah! Rocks for Jocks!" This still makes me laugh, partly because I admire witty people, and partly because after looking up what a jock is on my BrailleNote's dictionary, I realized it was such an accurate assessment of the class. I really felt out of place in this class because I was one of only a few other girls, and all the boys really were jocks. But it was an easy class where I remember getting my homework done relatively quickly, and for someone whose second least favorite subject is Science, that was all I cared about.

Sometimes, I even felt like I was held to a higher standard than my peers. I remember envying my sighted peers sometimes, not because I wished I could see, but because when they didn't do their homework, they only had to deal with lecturing by the classroom teacher and their parents. But because I had an education team, when I didn't do my homework, I was lectured by the classroom teacher, my parents, my aid and Mrs. Reich. The lectures from Mrs. Reich were especially memorable because normally, she really is perpetually cheerful, and she still found ways to make lessons fun and rewarding as I got older. In middle school, she started teaching me basic cooking skills, and while some vision rehabilitation teachers follow a prescribed curriculum of foods blind students should learn to cook, Mrs. Reich was more laid-back and believed the same skills could be learned cooking foods the student likes. So I knew that if she felt the need to lecture me, I had really messed up.

By high school, I was a serious student who was invited to Academic Honors Night every year. Academic Honors Night was an annual event rewarding students with a GPA of 3.5 or higher. This dedication was mostly due to genuine maturity, as I was becoming an adult who understood the importance of education for my future, a future that I realized was much closer at hand than it was in elementary school, and I had developed a passion for writing and politics that compensated for my hatred of Math. It also helped that by the time I got to high school, technology was available that made homework completion much less tedious. In addition to the BrailleNote which made writing papers and doing research so much easier, the horrible 4-track cassette player and a box of cassette tapes for each textbook, was replaced with one CD for each book, and a special CD player to play it. Each box of cassettes came with a braille reference sheet to look up which cassette, and which track on that cassette contained an assigned textbook chapter. The volunteer readers for these books announced every page and chapter heading, but once you found the right track, you had to fast-forward, stop every few seconds, listen for a little bit to hear what page you were on, then fast-forward more until you got to the right spot. I didn't have the patience for this tedium, so unless I could talk someone into giving me a print book and convince my parents to just read the chapter to me, I often found the consequences of giving a flimsy excuse to the teacher for not doing the assignment more bearable than messing with the 4-track player. But the new CD player had a keypad where I could just enter the page number and boom, I was there!

But if I am being honest, this dedication was also partly fueled by a conversation with Mrs. Reich in eighth grade when she worried about how I would handle the academic rigor of high school, and suggested the possibility that I could spread high school over five years, or because of my disability, I could legally stay in high school until I was 21. I don't remember my exact response, but I remember the spirit of it was "Oh heck no!" Many nights at 1:00 in the morning when I was still creating a graph or trying to figure out a complex equation and I was so tempted to just go to bed and forget it, this veiled threat was enough to motivate me to persevere until the assignment was done, even correcting mistakes I had made on my homework the night before.

A couple years ago, I had a chance to catch up with Mrs. Reich over lunch. She told me then that a lot of aids request that teachers only assign the blind student half the homework assigned to everyone else because some subjects, especially Math are more difficult to grasp as a blind person. But Mrs. Hobson believed that I should have the same homework as my peers. She wanted me to be well-prepared for the real world, which she believed could not happen if I had the expectation of only having to do half the work as my peers. Maybe it's a good thing Mrs. Reich didn't tell me this until I was well into adulthood because had I known this as a teenager, I might have been furious with Mrs. Hobson. Because homework took me so long, sometimes I feel like I didn't fully get the chance to be a kid. For example, every time I listen to a political debate, I think about how neat it would have been to try out Debate Club, but when this opportunity was offered, I knew joining this club would be biting off more than I could chew. My only extra-curricular activities in high school were weekly piano lessons with a sweet nun who taught me by ear, although I was often too burnt out from homework to practice as much as I should have, and the Milwaukee Children's Choir which rehearsed at a church downtown two hours one evening a week. Even with just these activities, I was often living on four hours of sleep at night. But if I had it to do all over, I definitely would not have exchanged choir for debate club, as singing was, and still is a true passion of mine, and the friendships, opportunities and joy this choir brought to my childhood could not have been matched by debate club. And as cliche as it may sound, with maturity I have come to agree with the sentiment that adversity builds character. If I went through school having plenty of time to pursue every childhood opportunity, but accustomed to having only half the homework as my peers, college might have been a much bigger culture shock than it was, and I may not have been as tenacious when challenges came my way in college, in my first job as a paralegal at a Social Security disability law firm, or in seminary school where I am currently pursuing a Masters certificate in Christian studies.

At every school I attended, I was given a private room designated the Braille Room. At Burleigh Elementary, I was pulled out of class when my peers were practicing penmanship, and taken to this room to practice Braille. I was also sometimes taken to this room when the class was given time to work on assignments independently. The teacher often played music during this time, and classmates would talk which made it difficult for me to concentrate. I was also periodically pulled out of class during story time just after lunch. This was the only time I was ever sad about meeting with Mrs. Reich as I loved everything about story time, especially in Ms. Gnacinski's class. Ms. Gnacinski was my teacher for first and second grade. She never chose a story I didn't love, and just listening to her sweet, expressive reading voice made me smile. Instead of listening to her from our desks, we would sit in a circle on carpet squares in the corner of the classroom. After a long morning learning to read for ourselves, followed by the noisiness and craziness of lunch and recess, this cozy story time was just what I needed. When I expressed sadness about having to miss story time, Ms. Gnacinski tried tape recording the class story time for me to listen to at home which I tried to do a couple of times, but it just wasn't the same.

I attended half-day kindergarten in the afternoons, but every Monday, Mom would take me to school early for physical and occupational therapy. Once I started first grade, I was pulled from art class, another largely visual subject, for this therapy. I didn't cry in therapy as I did in preschool, but I wasn't fond of it. I especially hated the balance beam, and having to stand on one foot without holding onto anything. I actually don't know how I managed to graduate physical therapy by the end of second grade because I still couldn't stand on one foot if my life depended on it. Maybe Mrs. Judy just decided I was a lost cause. I received Occupational Therapy through fifth grade. In kindergarten, the focus was learning to use silverware. Mom would send me to school with a Tupperware container of macaroni and cheese, which Mrs. Becky would heat for me. I should not have graduated from that either, as I still don't have patience for forks. During these lunches with Mrs. Becky, I would either manage to only catch one or two noodles when I tried to spear them blindly with my fork, or I would get too many noodles and spill them all down the front of me while bringing the fork up to my mouth. My well-meaning older siblings have tried various times over the years to make me practice, but the bossy way they went about it, and the way they nitpicked everything from my posture to the way I held the fork only made me feel more frustrated, discouraged and rebellious. Meals are supposed to be enjoyable, and I don't understand why it is so taboo in the sighted world to get a little bit of assistance from the hands God gave us. As an adult, I developed Celiac Disease, which has turned out to be advantageous as I have a legitimate excuse to avoid eating at formal events, and on the rare occasion I do eat out with friends, I have found them to be true friends who accept me as I am, even saying if they lost their sight, they would need to use their hands too!

In first and second grade, I remember the focus shifting to learning to dress myself. Mrs. Becky showed me how I could tell my shirt and pants were on the right way by making sure the tag was in back. Nowadays most clothing does not have tags, a well-intentioned remedy to the annoyance of being poked by tags, but a change which has made it a little more difficult to ensure I am not putting anything on backwards. Fortunately, most clothing has a tiny imprint I can feel where the tag used to be, and of course, if the shirts have anything tactile like a painted design, beads or glitter, it is pretty obvious that goes in front. Mrs. Becky also showed me how to work zippers, snaps and buttons, and how to tie my shoes.

Then toward the end of second grade through fifth grade, the focus shifted to learning to type on a qwerty keyboard and use a computer equipped with screen-reading software. I caught on to typing pretty easily. In the very early days of learning this skill, there were braille letters on every key, but I didn't need them for long. I don't know if the engineers behind the creation of the keyboard were consciously thinking about accessibility for the blind, but nevertheless, the little bumps on the f and j really helped orient me. The only thing I hated about learning to type were the frequent trips to the computer lab to take typing tests with my class. The tests required entering long, complicated sentences that Mrs. Zahn would have to read to me, and then a software program would assess our speed and accuracy. On these tests, my typing speed was slow which concerned teachers at first. But Mrs. Becky quickly figured out that when I could type my own sentences, cutting out the awkwardness of trying to re-type sentences read to me, my speed improved dramatically. But while my typing ability on the Qwerty keyboard was acceptable, I much preferred typing on the braille keyboard where I amazed classmates and teachers over the years with how fast my fingers could fly. To sighted people, the braille code that is based entirely around just six keys seems complicated, and I can understand where they are coming from. But once you memorize the code, the braille keyboard is so much more efficient in my opinion than the qwerty keyboard. But I am so glad I learned to type on a qwerty keyboard, not only because it is a vital skill to have when using a braille keyboard isn't possible, but also because by middle school when spelling was no longer an official subject, the qwerty keyboard provided a much-needed opportunity to practice spelling.

My computer skills regressed again when I got to high school because I loved my BrailleNote so much that I came to despise the regular computer. I not only hated the computer because of the inefficiency of navigating through a zillion menus and toolbars and windows with tabs and arrows when the BrailleNote was so much more straight-forward, or having to listen to text read, and sometimes mis-pronounced, in a monotonous computer voice when on my BrailleNote, I could read silently using the braille display. I also hated the fact that because the laptop equipped with the Window-Eyes screen reader was a shared computer, the screen reader did not come on by default, so I had to go through a whole procedure to get the screen reader open. For a brief time in elementary school, we had Window-Eyes installed on the family computer. My family, understandably didn't want this on all the time, but once they figured out how to turn it off, they couldn't figure out how to get it back on again, and family life was very hectic during those years such that no one had the time or energy to figure that out. In middle school, assignments that required typing were rare enough that I could either get them done at school, or I would write the paper on my Perkins Brailler and dictate it to Mom or Dad who would type it.

At school, getting Window-Eyes open involved a relatively simple procedure that Mrs. Hobson wrote out for me. After holding down the power button for couple seconds and waiting for some clicking and a chime to indicate the computer was ready to go, I think I had to tab three times, enter my username, tab again, enter my password, press enter, then tab ten times to find the screen reader, press enter and it would come on. The problem was that this procedure almost never worked for me, and when Mrs. Hobson would check in on me and I would tell her I couldn't get it open, and she would see I was completely on the wrong screen, I think she assumed I just didn't follow the directions, especially when, of course, the procedure would work perfectly for her. It was my intention to follow the directions exactly, but I could have mis-counted the tabs, or even mis-typed my username or password. But with no screen reader, I had no way of knowing where I went wrong. In preparation for college, I found out that most colleges use the JAWS screen reader, which was fine with me because given the frustration using the computer provoked, I kind of wanted a fresh start, and I never was really proficient with Window-Eyes anyway. So in August 2008, as soon as my guide dog training was complete, I scheduled some training sessions with JAWS through Vision Forward. I am a proficient computer user with JAWS now, but more importantly, now that I am an adult, I have my own computer set with the screen reader to come on instantly and no one is allowed to touch it!

The BrailleNote could connect to the Internet, but back in those days, not every website was compatible with the BrailleNote. One Tuesday in December my senior year of high school, Mrs. Hobson gave me two days advance notice of an upcoming unit in Algebra 2 that would require a special calculator to multiply matrices. The other students had advanced hand-held calculators for this, and my BrailleNote had a built-in calculator, but it was not capable of this particular task.

"I want you to think about how you could do this assignment," she told me that Tuesday.

By then, I had been working with her so long I knew exactly what she was getting at. There was a website with a calculator program I could use. I think I did a half-hearted Google search on my BrailleNote that evening, but when I clicked on the links to a couple sites and they didn't work with my BrailleNote, I reported to Mrs. Hobson the next day that I couldn't find any websites. With a sigh of disappointment at my lack of initiative, she gave me the name of a website she had found. I hadn't found that particular site in my half-hearted search, so I held out hope all day that this website would work with my BrailleNote, but alas it did not, and my anxiety about dealing with the Laptop was so intense that, in an uncharacteristic reversion to my slacker childhood ways, I lied to the Math teacher the next morning and basically told him the assignment was inaccessible for me. By then, interaction with teachers was pretty much exclusively my responsibility, and this teacher was really kind and laid-back. But Mrs. Hobson found out, and needless to say, she was not pleased with me. She marched me down to the Braille room, walked me through the procedure of opening the computer again, and showed me the website, ending with, "This should have been done days ago."

It so happened that the following two days, Mrs. Hobson had an emergency to attend to. But she told me in no uncertain terms that I had Friday to practice using the computer, and by the end of the day Monday, I was expected to complete the Math assignment. I forget now if I had to ask a teacher or librarian for help, or if I managed to get Window-Eyes open myself by being extra cautious, and paying meticulous attention to every keystroke. But I got through that assignment without further incident, and all was forgiven.

Then one Friday afternoon about a month later, I walked out of choir rehearsal, my last class of the day to find Mrs. Hobson and Mrs. Reich waiting for me. My stomach dropped as my mind raced. I hadn't tried any more shenanigans like telling a teacher an assignment wasn't accessible. What could I have done to be in so much trouble? Usually, I got myself to the bus after choir. Sometimes Mrs. Hobson would meet me to ask me a last minute question about an assignment or something. But I had never been greeted by both of them.

"We've got a bombshell for you," Mrs. Reich said, "Mrs. Hobson got offered another position, so she will no longer be your aid." They determined that I was mature enough to advocate for myself on my own, and what better way to practice for college. At that point, Mrs. Hobson only adapted a few Math materials and tests in braille for me. The vast majority of my assignments were e-mailed to me ahead of time directly from the teachers, and I e-mailed completed assignments directly to them. Mrs. Reich would handle the few things that still needed to be brailled or transcribed into print for the Math teacher, but basically, I was now on my own.

To even my own surprise, I was not anxious. I was excited. I tried to be professional and hide it. I think I said something like "Oh, wow congratulations." But Mrs. Hobson laughed. She could always tell what I was really thinking, and she knew I was like the office employee who found out they would no longer have a boss.

For the most part, I handled this new independence with maturity. Shortly after gaining this independence, there was a Spanish project where the teacher wanted us to write a paragraph in Spanish color coding different words to indicate which were adjectives, nouns, verbs etc. Since I couldn't color code words with my technology, I spoke with the teacher, and we worked out an adaptation where I would put the nouns in bold, underline the verbs, italicize the adjectives. But when I sat down to do the assignment, senioritis got the better of me and the tedium of navigating to all these different fonts was more than I could take. So I wrote the paragraph with no special fonts and turned it in. Disappointed, my teacher returned it with a D.

In one sense, you could say my wish to experience what it would be like to be treated like the sighted kids, to not be lectured by a whole education team when I messed up, was granted. But when I saw that grade, my maturity returned and I found no pleasure in it. In fact, I even told Mrs. Reich of my laziness and the bad grade that resulted even though I wouldn't have had to. I don't think I fully comprehended until then that all the years of being tough on me, holding me to high expectations, was not for their benefit but mine. It was then that I understood the love component of tough love. They knew that this world is rough, and if a blind person is going to thrive, she needs to have a strong work ethic and set high expectations for herself, and they knew they wouldn't always be there to help me along. So they held me to high expectations, and called me out when they knew I was capable of doing better, in the hopes that when they said goodbye, I would be self-motivated and have high expectations of myself and live a fulfilling life. As an adult, I find myself thanking Mrs. Hobson and Mrs. Reich often for their tough love, especially when I am faced with challenging situations and find that I am able to resist the temptation to just give up.

After that wake-up call, I shaped up, and proudly accepted my final certificate at Academic Honors night that spring.

On June 8, 2008, I graduated with the same senior class I would have been in without a disability. I knew Mrs. Hobson would be there, and I couldn't wait to grant a wish she expressed at the start of senior year, to see me cross the stage to accept my diploma independently. Despite practicing the route with Mrs. Reich at a rehearsal three days earlier, I was embarrassed when my cane disrupted the dignified occasion by clanging loudly against a podium that hadn't been there in rehearsal. I wasn't quite sure how to get around it, but my embarrassment melted away when Mrs. Hobson, whom I could tell was crying, ran onto the stage, gave me a hug and guided me around the podium. I didn't know what the uncharted waters of college had in store for me, but that day, I knew I was well prepared. After the ceremony, Mrs. Hobson came to the cookout at my house, where she presented me with a ceramic plaque. Carved on this plaque in giant print letters was a mantra she said to me often over the years. "NEVER NEVER NEVER GIVE UP."

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Before I continue, perhaps you readers would appreciate a primer. I am so accustomed to being blind, and so familiar with braille and all of the technology I use that it is easy to forget how foreign and "amazing" it is to the general public. You have likely heard the name Louis Braille, an icon in the blind community. In second grade during one of my private braille lessons with Mrs. Reich, I remember reading a braille biography about Louis Braille, but he may not have been part of the mainstream school curriculum. Louis Braille was born in 1809, in a town near Paris, France. When he was three years old, he lost his sight in an accident while playing with tools in his father's harness shop. But he excelled as an organist, and in 1819, received a scholarship to attend the National Institute for Blind Children in Paris. At this school, he took interest in a tactile code created by French Army officer Charles Barbier called night writing, which allowed soldiers to communicate with one another in the dark. When Louis Braille was fifteen, he simplified the twelve-dot night writing code, cutting it in half to just six dots. The most basic unit of the braille code is referred to as a cell. A full braille cell is arranged in three rows, two columns. Going down the left-hand column are dots 1, 2 and 3, and down the right-hand column dots 4, 5 and 6. There are 63 possible combinations that can be made using these six dots to indicate letters, numbers, punctuation, and even some shorthand symbols for words called contractions. Over the centuries, the combinations have been modified to meet the linguistic needs of different countries, and modifications are continually being made as language and technology evolves. Louis Braille taught at the Institute starting in 1826. He also adapted the code for musical notation, published a treatise, and produced a three-volume history book in braille before his death from Tuberculosis in 1852.

For most of my school years, there were two ways braille could be transcribed: grade 1 braille in which every word is spelled out, and grade 2 braille which has all kinds of symbols and abbreviations to allow for more efficient transcription, and to save paper, as braille cells require a lot more space than print characters. In every other subject, my aides wanted me to use grade 2 braille, but for spelling tests, they told me to use grade 1 braille. Normally, there was nothing wrong with using the braille symbol for "the", but they also recognized the importance of ensuring I understood that "the" was spelled t-h-e.

My parents bought our first computer in 1995 when I was in kindergarten. At that age, I didn't understand how revolutionary personal computers were, but I remember how excited my teenage siblings were to join the modern age. They thought we were the last family on Earth to finally cave and get a computer. But even when I was in middle school, computers weren't as ubiquitous in education as they are today. Maybe once a quarter, a teacher would require us to type the final draft of a paper, but for the most part, my peers still hand-wrote most assignments, and I still did most of my assignments on a Perkins Brailler. The Perkins Brailler is the blind equivalent to the pencil. It is a heavy, manual metal typewriter that you have to roll paper into. You have to press down hard on the keys to produce crisp, readable braille, so hard that when I was really young, I hated when it was time to write because it was physically exhausting. To address this, the school district bought me an electric, Mountbatten braillewriter, but it was prone to glitches, and because it was very expensive, it had to be kept at school, so I would have to do homework on the manual braillewriter, another reason I didn't always do my homework those early years. There was also no way to fully erase mistakes on the manual braillewriter. If I made a small mistake, I could squash the dots as best I could with my fingernail, but if there was a large amount of text that I wanted to erase, I often found it easier just to start the page over. Despite these drawbacks, I still felt more at ease using the braille writer than the qwerty keyboard (the technical name for the standard computer keyboard) because six keys felt so much more natural to me. So in middle school when I did have to type something, I had gotten kind of slow, not only because I was out of practice with the qwerty keyboard itself, but also because I had to stop and think about how to spell some words, especially less commonly used words like knowledge, which is just the letter k in grade 2 braille.

These days, my favorite way to type is computer braille on my BrailleNote, a special kind of tablet with a braille display, technology which first became available when I was in high school. My junior year of high school, I started taking Spanish, and I think because some of the grade 2 contractions for English are used to represent other symbols in Spanish, Spanish required me to get used to a slightly different braille code called computer braille. It required typing in grade 1 braille, and many of the key combinations that used to be grade 2 contractions were now used to indicate punctuation. I found this annoying at first, as if my wings had been clipped even on the braille keyboard, but I adjusted relatively quickly, and then as my writing for other subjects became more complex, it occurred to me there were advantages to using computer braille in these subjects as well. For instance, I had to write a paper about Al-qaeda for a current events class. I usually didn't show my parents my schoolwork as by then I was a conscientious student who made the honor roll every semester and my parents trusted me. But my mom asked if she could read this particular paper because like me, she finds the study of current events interesting. She thought my paper was really well-written, which made me happy, but more importantly, she noticed what would have been a really embarrassing mistake. By using grade 2 braille, when I went to print the paper, Al-qaeda came out Also-qaeda as al is the grade 2 abbreviation for also! I thanked Mom profusely and was able to correct and reprint the paper by putting a letter sign (dots 5-6) in front of the al. But it occurred to me that it would be wise to switch to computer braille all the time so I wouldn't have to worry about missing silly things like that which would detract from my writing and confuse the heck out of teachers unfamiliar with braille. Ironically nowadays, my fingers fly on the braille keyboard typing computer braille, and I have noticed I have gotten a little rusty when I need to type grade 2 braille every now and then!

But as language and technology are constantly evolving, so is braille. In 2016, the Braille Authority of North America began the transition to a new code called Unified English Braille. I didn't need to attend any training sessions in this new code: the basics of braille remain unchanged, and the modifications I quickly figured out as I started receiving my braille magazines in the new code. When I bought an updated BrailleNote a couple years ago, I was able to continue typing in computer braille, but the symbols that were different, most notably the parenthesis symbols, appear on the braille display in Unified English Braille. If I ever have to start typing in Unified English Braille, there will be a tiny learning curve, just as getting used to computer braille was, but nothing I cannot get used to.

This code is actually more consistent with other english speaking countries. (While we were at it, I think we should have switched to the metric system of measurement as well, but that's an argument for another book.) This code developed new dot combinations for symbols like bullet points which have become more commonly used, and created separate combinations to indicate whether a passage of text is underlined or italicized, rather than using the same combination to represent both which made reading a little confusing sometimes. According to an article published by the Perkins Institute, there is room in the code for the addition of new symbols, making this a forward-thinking code that can evolve as language and technology continue to evolve in the future.

Unified English Braille also removes some contractions, making it a little less complex. Experts hope that this change will improve the braille literacy rate for blind children today. I was shocked and sad to learn in 2009 that only 10 percent of blind children were being taught to read braille, a statistic which as far as I know, has not changed. School administrators overseeing tight budgets often don't see the value of hiring braille instructors, especially for children with some vision who can read large print, and often even for children who are totally blind given the availability of screen reading software and audio books. I am not sure what the braille literacy rate was back in 1994-1995 when I would have started learning braille, but even then, if one of my siblings' teachers is any indication, there were signs of trouble for the future of braille literacy.

Because of my special needs, I had to attend public school, but my siblings attended a Catholic school through eighth grade. My mom can still recall the bewilderment she felt when in conversation with a teacher at this school, the teacher asked why I was learning braille given the availability of audio books. Before she could even think what to say, my mom recalls saying slowly, I imagine in a tone of astonishment that this wasn't obvious to a teacher, "because, she, would be, illiterate." I feel so blessed to grow up with parents and a district administration that never questioned the value of braille. I listened to a lot of audio books over my school years too, as some books were not available in braille, and especially by middle school, audio books were more practical as braille books require a lot of shelf space. But I cannot imagine a life where simple things like finding the right bathroom or elevator button are more difficult, especially if someone's vision gets worse--as it often does--and the person can no longer read large print. I cannot imagine never knowing the pleasure of reading silently in bed or outside on a beautiful summer day.

The National Federation of the Blind is a very rhetorically militant advocacy organization whom I disagree with on many things. But I agree with their position that every totally blind child, and in many cases even children with partial vision, especially those with progressive eye conditions should be taught braille.

In 2009, this organization used the 200th anniversary of Louis Braille's birth to highlight this literacy crisis by publishing a book of 200 letters written by blind people to President Obama urging him to address the crisis. Many were from people like me, blessed to have learned braille as children, but there were also numerous letters from people who were never taught braille. Many recounted childhoods filled with needless hardship, like suffering headaches from the eye strain of reading large print they really couldn't see that well, and falling behind in their school work. Some learned braille in high school or college. Some never learned braille. But all said if they would have been taught braille as children, everything from finding employment and succeeding in a job, to just daily living would have been easier. So if you happen to be the parent of a child you found out is legally blind and you found my book, I urge you, make sure they learn braille.

A common misperception about braille is that it is slow. For sighted adults who feel called to a career teaching visually impaired children, or adults who lose their sight, learning braille is understandably more difficult. Just as is the case with learning a foreign language, braille is easier to learn as a child when the brain is more plastic. Mrs. Reich told me she reads braille with her eyes because her brain is so wired to using vision, her fingers alone cannot distinguish braille dots. And because braille wasn't second-nature for her as it would have been had she learned it as a child, she sometimes made typos in materials she brailled for me, typos which I delighted in pointing out as I became fluent in braille. Teachers who read braille with their eyes also find it especially difficult to read braille embossed on both sides of a page, and when she introduced me to double-sided books in second grade, I remember Mrs. Reich warning me that I might find reading these books a little more difficult at first. But I had no problem adjusting at all. To me--and I think I can speak for all blind people fluent in braille here--you can barely feel the dots on the opposite side of the page. In fact, they are so faint they aren't even legible to me, whereas the dots on the side I am reading are crisp and very easy to read. But Mom could no longer help me with homework when I started reading double-sided braille, and Mrs. Reich said this is difficult for her as well because sighted people can clearly see the dots on the opposite side of the page, so much so that they are confusing and distracting. But with practice, children and adults can improve their reading speed, and children can become fluent in the language of braille.

One accommodation I did receive in school was extra time for tests. This was especially necessary for math tests, as it takes longer to make meaning of a tactile graph or figure than it does for a sighted student to look at it, and for reading comprehension tests because referring back to a passage and skimming it for the answer takes longer in braille. But for everyday reading and writing, I could use braille just as efficiently as my peers used print. Hard-copy braille books are expensive to produce but Seedlings Braille Books for Children, and the National Braille Press, the most well-known producers of braille books for children, have programs for parents or teachers to get free braille books. They do take up a lot of shelf space, but there has been incredible innovation in recent years, with BrailleNotes, and even stand-alone braille displays that can connect to an iPhone or computer. This technology is currently very expensive, with a stand-alone braille display costing around $1,000, and a full BrailleNote costing over $5,000. Dirty/sticky fingers can also damage the braille display, so your school district may understandably want to opt for hard-copy books until the child is mature enough to treat this technology with care. But as an adult, I only have a couple prized hard-copy books. With my BrailleNote, I can download books and read them in braille just like sighted people who download books to a phone or tablet.

As is the case with most children learning to read, I was slow at first, but this wasn't a braille problem. I was just a child who needed to practice, just like my sighted peers. I think in the early years learning braille--kindergarten through second grade--I would see Mrs. Reich for an hour a day three days a week for intensive braille practice. The rest of the time, I slowly sounded out words right alongside my peers in class, Ms. Gnacinski calling on me to read just as often as any other student. By the end of second grade, I was reading so confidently that I found pleasure in reading. When my siblings and I were growing up, my parents were strict about bedtime when it came to putting away video games, turning off the television, but we could stay up as late as we wanted reading. I took full advantage of this, especially since I didn't even need the light on to read.

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While I was playing and learning at the Center, conscious only of the present moment, my parents and teachers were thinking about my future. My parents had a big decision to make, one that would effect the course of my entire life. Where would I attend elementary school?

My older siblings attended a Catholic school, but going to school with them was out of the question as that school, and private schools in general, simply don't have the resources to accommodate children with disabilities. Just a generation or two earlier, it would have simply been a given that I would attend the state school for the blind in Janesville. Children who live too far away to come home every night board there during the week, take a bus (or plane if they live really far up north) home on Friday evening and come back to school Monday morning.

When I was first made aware that some children still do this, it broke my heart. I remembered being homesick just going to camp for a week. I couldn't imagine having to say goodbye to my family for the week every week, and on the bus ride back, thinking of all the family memories that were probably made during the week that I wasn't a part of. I couldn't imagine enduring the loneliness of going back to a dorm room after a long day, rather than walking into a friendly home, getting a hug from Mom and telling her about my day. But Mom told me I never would have had to endure that homesickness because if it turned out the state school was the best option for my education, the family would have packed up and moved to Janesville so I could come home every night. But after a visit to this school, everyone, especially my siblings, knew there were better options.

My mom loves to tell the story of that day. My older siblings must have had the day off from school because they all rode along on the visit. As the whole family toured the school, Mom and Dad didn't like the atmosphere at all. It was basically a stereotypical, cold institutional setting with none of the warmth and genuine compassion of the Center. Meanwhile, Mom noticed the staff talking up the school to my siblings like expert salesmen, parading their best and brightest students in front of them and trying to convince them what a wonderful place it would be for me. The entire time, Mom noticed that all three of my siblings were impeccably courteous and polite to these people, and were even smiling. It was so convincing that Mom remembered thinking, "I really hope they don't beg me to send her here."

But the moment we were all back in the car, and the doors were closed, my siblings let loose. "You cannot send her there! Please Mom, promise you won't send her there!"

When I heard this story for the first time, I almost cried. Like all sibling relationships, my relationship with my siblings had its share of rivalry and petty fights. Let's just say they didn't give me special treatment because I was blind, and I was no angel either. But this story made me realize that when you get right down to it, they love me and have my back. I hope I would respond the same way if one of my siblings ever needed an advocate.

I do not remember this first visit to the state school at all, but five years later, I would get the opportunity to visit this school when they hosted the Braille Olympics. Blind students from all over the state were invited. I went to this event every year for three years, and overall, I had a blast. The event started on a Thursday morning and ended the following afternoon. I was an excellent braille reader so I dominated in the activities and always went home with medals. In the evening, there was a pizza party, games, a dance and time to swim in their pool. But as much fun as I had, I was always glad to get home. Even at that young age, I could tell this school was the kind of place that was fine for a short trip, but which would not be a pleasant place to actually live.

The brick walls, hard linoleum floors and many huge echoing hallways radiated loneliness, and since the trend toward keeping students in their own districts took hold in my generation, the vast majority of students there were severely disabled. Among their handicaps was vision impairment, but it was obvious by the way many of them behaved that their vision impairment was a secondary concern.

The one and only thing I would have loved about living at the state school was the library. I had a chance to visit it one year, and it was floor to ceiling bookshelves like you would see in a typical library, except all those books were in braille! I know this is cliche, but I really did feel like a kid in a candy store. At Burleigh Elementary School, there was one designated shelf in the school library for braille books, and in middle school, there were no braille books at all. Middle school had books on tape which I listened to, but there is nothing quite as magical as the old-fashioned pleasure of holding a real book and enjoying it silently in braille. But as wonderful as access to so many braille books might have been, it wouldn't have been worth the loneliness or the lack of peers I could relate to.

Another option for my elementary school was a school about half an hour from home that had a resource room. It was a mainstream school so I would have had some classes with sighted peers, but there was also a resource room specifically for blind students. Many of the children that graduated the Center at the same time I did ended up going to this school, and when I was in third grade, my vision teacher would take me to this school for lunch once a week to socialize with these students. This school wasn't in the district where we lived, but there was a special bus that would have picked me up and brought me home every day. It would have been a long bus ride though, and for that reason, my parents hoped there was a better option.

It turned out there was. With the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act in August 1990--again, what perfect timing--came an increasing trend toward keeping students with disabilities in their home districts and mainstreaming their education as much as possible. It was a trend Mr. Zahn, the principal of Burleigh Elementary School fully embraced. He said the school had never had a blind student before, but he was open to the challenge.

Many of the children at the Center had autism or other cognitive disabilities in addition to blindness, but my parents, and the staff at the Center--including Mrs. Reich who would transition to my school district and be my vision rehabilitation teacher from kindergarten through high school--could tell that blindness was the only disability that would effect my education. Therefore, with just a few accommodations, I could succeed in a mainstream classroom learning alongside sighted peers, go to college, and live a full, normal life. But before entering kindergarten, all children with special needs are evaluated by a school psychologist to determine their academic readiness, and to the shock of my team at the Center, the psychologist determined that I was nowhere near ready for kindergarten. But looking at the results, one of the teachers at the center realized that I had not been given a fair evaluation, and tipped my parents off right away. The teacher said she could fight for me at meetings, but parents really have more power. So Mom contacted the school psychologist, who, sure enough, told her that the test did not correct for visual impairment. On one hand, I can empathize with this psychologist who had likely never encountered a totally blind child because it is a low-incidence disability, and it would only have been four years or so since the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act that began the trend of integrating blind children into mainstream classrooms. But rather than consulting with my teachers at the Center about how the evaluation could be modified, or at the very least, administering the visual components of the test as is but not counting the results, she administered the test as is, and counted the results against me! One component of the test for example had four pictures, three of which went together and one that did not relate to the others, such as an umbrella, raincoat, rain boots and an apple. The child was asked to point to the picture that did not belong.

I don't remember taking this evaluation, but Mom says I was a very cooperative kid, so she imagines I just pointed to something at random on the blank-to-me page of pictures put in front of me.

"Couldn't you have told her what the pictures were and asked her to name the object that did not fit with the others?" Mom asked.

"No, that would have skewed the test," the psychologist said.

"Well, what about handing her a real umbrella, raincoat, rain boots and apple?" Mom asked.

"No, that too would have skewed the test," the psychologist replied, "it is a standardized test and to be fair to all children, we have to administer it the same way."

Mom didn't have a good feeling about this psychologist, but she also knew of parents who lived in denial, unable to accept the severity of their child's disability, and she didn't want to be that kind of parent. So she consulted my other teachers at the Center, who were all just as surprised as she was.

"She's definitely ready for kindergarten. In fact, she is beyond pre-braille and starting to learn braille," Janet said.

If this psychologist would have had her way, I would have been placed into a class for children who were cognitively impaired. Given that children with disabilities are assigned a team of experts to monitor their education, I think eventually, someone would have noticed that a mistake was made, but just as with my delayed medical care because of the dishonest neurologist, the start of a proper education for me may have been delayed. But Mom stepped in to ensure that didn't happen, demanding that this psychologist be removed from my team. She was taken off my team, and for the next eight years, we didn't hear a word from her. Eventually, she was nothing but a distant bad memory for my parents. A fair evaluation that accurately reflected my abilities was administered, and I began kindergarten at the same age I would have if I weren't blind.

For the next nine years, I did well overall. I was a typical kid who got in trouble because I didn't always do my homework. I especially hated Math homework, a hatred that lasted through college statistics. My brain just didn't get Math, or I would master a concept at school with the teacher holding my hand, but when I got home, I completely forgot how to do the problems. As early as third grade, I remember my teachers wanting me to use the abacus to solve complex multiplication and division problems, the equivalent to my peers who were learning to borrow and carry numbers using pencil and paper. But I would quickly lose patience with the abacus and just punch the equations into my talking calculator.

Midway through the first quarter of seventh grade when midterm report cards came out, report cards we were supposed to take home for parents to sign, but which I admitted upon interrogation by my classroom aid and Mrs. Reich that I didn't take home because I was failing Math so miserably, my teachers determined I needed to be in a slower-paced Math class. In this slower Math class, my grades improved dramatically. By eighth grade, I was maturing, physically in that I was developing a mature soprano singing voice that prompted one boy who passed me singing in the hallway to say, "see you on American Idol", and intellectually in that I was discovering a passion for writing and national politics.

But in February of eighth grade, it was time to update my Individualized Education Plan (IEP) again as I was about to transition to high school. One Friday morning following choir rehearsal third period, I arrived back at the resource room the school set aside for me and all my braille equipment for study hall time as I did every day, when waiting for me outside the door was a person I didn't recognize. She introduced herself and explained to me that she was a school psychologist and that as part of my education plan, an evaluation needed to be done. She handed me a fat business envelope she said contained important information my parents needed to review and sign. I politely thanked her, took the envelope, put it in my backpack and promised I would get it signed and returned right away.

That afternoon when I walked into the house from the school bus, Mom and my sister who happened to be home from college for the weekend to recover from surgery to remove wisdom teeth, were all shook up. It turned out this psychologist had also called and left a voice message, actually two messages, in which she stammered and didn't make sense. My parents suspect that she was so clearly nervous while leaving these messages because she remembered who I was, and maybe realized what a terrible mistake she had made. That evening, all the memories came back to Mom, and I learned the story of this ridiculous evaluation. Mom went ahead and signed the papers and let this psychologist administer the evaluation because at that point, she no longer would have had the power to jeopardize my education. I was comfortable with it too because I was old enough to know how to speak up for myself if she asked me to do something impossible.

On the day of the evaluation, I was polite and did not mention that I knew this backstory. But I will confess that perhaps my heart was a little smug, as I remember going to extra effort to dazzle her with my brilliance, using bigger words, and trying to come off sounding more sophisticated than I might have otherwise.

The closest the psychologist came to acknowledging the mistake she made was gushing to my parents at the IEP meeting about how well I had done. I hold no bitterness toward this psychologist, especially now that I have been in the workforce, working as a paralegal at a Social Security disability firm for almost five years. Despite having a disability myself, that job humbled me, revealing how much I don't know about other disabilities, and how out-of-touch I must have come off to clients from disadvantaged backgrounds. We all make mistakes, and we all have moments when we let our pride get in the way of common sense. I share this story not to malign the psychologist, but as a reminder, to myself as much as anyone, of the importance of humility, of asking for help when faced with an unfamiliar situation, and most importantly, of admitting when you made a mistake.

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"I know you're an adult now and I shouldn't drag you to things anymore, but I'm dragging you to this. I think it's important," Mom said.

It was October 2011 and I was complaining because I had just found out that Mom, Grandma and I would be going to a grand opening event for Vision Forward. This organization, formerly known as the Badger Association for the Blind, is a nonprofit that primarily provided services like technology training, Orientation and Mobility training, and social opportunities to blind adults. The name change to Vision Forward was only part of the organization's restructuring. The other part was a decision to merge with the Center for Blind and Visually Impaired Children, so that the blind and visually impaired in the community could come to one organization for all the services they would need their whole lives. The facility that this organization was headquartered in underwent major renovation to accommodate this consolidation and it was this grand opening to showcase these renovations that Mom wanted me to attend.

Don't get me wrong. I was extremely grateful for all of the services I received from both the Badger Association and the Center for Blind and Visually Impaired Children. But I had been to grand openings before and figured this celebration would just entail having to listen to big donors and executive directors giving boring speeches, and I was a busy college student who didn't have time for such things.

On that day, there were some boring speeches, but all was forgotten when we entered the newly added wing that would house the children's services.

"There's Erica!" Mom exclaimed as we entered the room.

"Hi Erica, do you remember who we are?" Mom said. Erica, the social worker for the Center for Blind and Visually Impaired Children, is also blind.

Erica remembered us as if she had worked with me only yesterday, and wrapped me and my mom in a hug.

"You're all grown up," she exclaimed referring to me, "you're in college now, right?"

I told her I was and she was genuinely thrilled to see I had done so well since I was that little kid in her program. And then she proceeded to give us a walk down memory lane.

Mom showed me a little cubby for babies to lay in that had objects like plates, spoons and string that would dangle above them to foster sensory experiences. Mom said I laid in that very cubby, and Erica said it is still used today.

She introduced me to Carmen and Janet, two other teachers I had who were still there, and they too hugged me and were thrilled to see who their little girl had become.

"And look at this," Erica said. It was a beautiful piece of wood with holes carved into it to represent a braille cell. Papaw (my maternal grandfather) made it for the Center when I went there, and it is still used to introduce children to braille today.

"What was I like when I went here?" I asked Erica. It was so long ago my memories were random fragments, mostly of field trips to a ranch to go horseback riding, or fun sensory experiences like playing in a tub of rice or water. I really had no memory of how I acted and what I did on a day-to-day basis.

"Oh you were precocious," Erica said, "you were almost always happy, and sometimes goofy." For example, she proceeded to tell me how I once stomped my feet really loud and fast to imitate someone running and then announced to everyone "Shhh! Someone's coming!" Upon hearing this story, I laughed so hard tears were streaming from my eyes. It was then that I realized why Mom dragged me to this event, and I was really glad she did. My preschool days were so long ago for me, and the memories so vague. She knew that some of the staff who taught me were still there today, and she wanted me to see them, not only to make their day, but I think also to show me how much of a blessing these people, and this program were on my life. These people, this program helped my parents navigate my vessel when the prospect of raising a blind child was a little overwhelming, and when I was too young to even realize I was different. These people, this program built a foundation of happy, even if fragmented memories, and gave me a great start on the journey to the successful college student I had become.

I came into the world a healthy baby who, for the first six months of life, I am told, was able to look right at the camera when pictures were taken. But when I was around six months old, my parents started noticing that I was using my left hand a lot more than my right when playing or reaching for things. When Mom mentioned it to the pediatrician, he merely said, "Huh, that's interesting." Since he wasn't concerned, Mom wasn't either at first, concluding that perhaps I would just be a lefty. She also noticed I would cry when she drove over big bumps, which she thought was unusual, but at the time, it didn't seem to warrant calling the doctor. But the turning point came the weekend of Halloween 1990 when I cried because my right arm got stuck under me while trying to roll over. That's when my parents knew something was wrong. Ironically, this inability to roll over was noticed during a weekend trip to Indiana to visit my paternal grandma and grandpa, and to attend a fundraiser Grandpa organized for a little boy suffering a brain tumor. So first thing Monday morning when we got home from the trip, she called the pediatrician who immediately referred me to a neurologist.

In hindsight, my parents discovered that this neurologist wasn't the most honest doctor. They first suspected this when he came to visit me at Children's Hospital because he was "curious to see how I was doing", and then billed our insurance company for the visit despite the fact that upon being referred to Children's Hospital, I was technically no longer his patient!

But originally, they didn't know anything about this doctor, and so went along when after an office examination, he ordered an MRI to be done at a particular diagnostic center which he told my parents had better equipment than Children's Hospital. Unfortunately, the center couldn't get me in for a week, which was an agonizing wait for my family. But when the MRI revealed a mass on my brain, I was immediately referred to Children's Hospital, where it turned out the scan done by the Diagnostic Center was insufficient, and therefore had to be repeated. The mass was later determined to be a Pilocytic Astrocytoma, a rare brain tumor which originated from the hypothalamus and was crushing my optic nerve. In hindsight my mom told me, she wishes she would have brought me to Children's Hospital right away. Sometimes, it still makes Mom sad to think that my treatment could have started a week earlier had she not waited to get into the diagnostic center. But doctors were pretty sure this week would not have made a difference in the outcome.

It is difficult to tell whether an infant can see or not, but thinking back on it, Mom remembered that long before the paralysis surfaced, I would stare intensely at people. At the time, she thought it was an adoring stare, but when she told an opthalmologist about it later, he indicated this staring could have been the first sign that I was having difficulty seeing people, and thus, the first sign of the brain tumor. During the week waiting to get into the diagnostic center, no new symptoms emerged. This indicates to me that the tumor was a slow-growing tumor.

This first neurologist was our one and only negative experience with doctors. All the other doctors that would treat me were outstanding. Upon review of my new MRI at Children's Hospital, I was referred in to the skilled, compassionate hands of Dr. Dunn, a neurosurgeon.

Even when I was officially considered cured, I would visit Dr. Dunn every year for follow-up until my seventh grade year when he retired. I actually looked forward to visiting this doctor all year. While most of the zillion doctors I had to see due to the complications of my tumor were in the sterile, stale atmosphere of the busy Children's Hospital, Dr. Dunn's office was in a quiet old building downtown that had that distinct wood fragrance that old buildings have, and where I heard a secretary clicking away on the keys of an old fashioned typewriter instead of a computer.

The neurological tests he did were more interesting than the poking and prodding of other doctors. In one test for example, he would ask me to tell him when I thought a minute had passed to test my brain's perception of time. So I would sit quietly and try to count the seconds, "one one thousand, two one thousand," in my head. The last time I visited him, I was ten seconds late, but he said this was an acceptable and normal margin of error without a clock to watch. When I was in second grade, he brought a model of a brain where you could peel away the different layers to show me how deep the tumor was in my brain. Every year, he also did the test for reflexes that all general physicians do where they tap that sweet spot on your knee with a special hammer to see if it bounces, but I think Dr. Dunn had a special touch with that hammer because it seemed like my knee bounced harder when he did it which always made me laugh.

He was the kind of doctor whose passion for his job and compassion for his patients was genuine. In other words, unlike the previous neurologist, this doctor clearly did not choose the profession for the money. Mom said when I was a baby, he referred to me as his little princess, and he was always genuinely thrilled to see how far I had come over the years of follow-up. After my grim diagnosis, his skill and compassion were a blessing for which my parents and I will forever be grateful.

As awful and scary as this diagnosis was, the silver lining was that if you are going to get this kind of tumor, infancy is the best time to get it, according to Dr. Dunn. In infancy, the skull and brain are not fully developed, so the brain can expand to accommodate a tumor, whereas in a fully developed skull, the tumor puts pressure on the brain causing horrible headaches. It is also much riskier to operate on a fully developed brain.

This was brought home when I was fifteen years old. Four years before that, my vision teacher started working with a girl who was newly blind at the age of nine from a brain tumor. I don't know if her tumor was classified as a Pilocytic Astrocytoma like mine, but my teacher told me about her because the tumor bore an eerie resemblance to mine, destroying the optic nerve and the pituitary. But perhaps because her brain was fully developed, it was inoperable and she had to endure chemo treatments. For awhile, the cancer appeared to be in remission, but a couple of years later, the tumor came back with a vengeance and nothing more could be done. She passed away just a few months later, not long after her thirteenth birthday.

I did not know this girl because she lived in a different school district, but when my teacher told me her tumor came back and was going to be terminal, the news shocked and haunted me. When I found and read a blog the family created to write about her suffering and how she handled it with grace, and recounted sad events like the celebration of what everyone knew would be her last birthday, I almost cried. I have read other accounts of people suffering with cancer, but none of them haunted me the way her story did because but for the grace of God, I could have suffered as this girl had and my parents could have been the grieving parents.

Given that brain tumors are rare in children, pediatric neurosurgery is a highly specialized field. So most of the other neurosurgeons Dr. Dunn consulted with in preparation for my surgery only had experience treating adults, and based on their experience, they would have been hesitant to operate, fearing it was too risky. But Dr. Dunn was optimistic that in my case, an operation could be successful. If I had been referred to a general neurosurgeon rather than Dr. Dunn, a highly skilled pediatric neurosurgeon, there is a good chance I wouldn't be here today.

Of course, it would be a risky operation. I came to a better appreciation of this risk when I was old enough to study the complexity of the brain in school. The brain does more than think and store knowledge and memories. It also governs vital, involuntary bodily processes like breathing and digestion, makes meaning of all five of our senses, and produces hormones that regulate everything from stress, to fluid and electrolyte balance to puberty and reproduction. The inside of the brain resembles a bowl of spaghetti and many components are tiny and very close together. So even though infancy gave me a better prognosis, when you are talking about an organ as complex and important as the brain is, I don't think there is such a thing as a low-risk surgery. Dr. Dunn acknowledged the risks to my parents. There was a chance that I wouldn't survive the operation, or that I would survive, but in a permanent vegetative state. But without the surgery, I would have little chance of survival at all. So my parents made the heart-rending decision to literally put my life in Dr. Dunn's hands. Surgery was scheduled for November 12, 1990.

The surgery lasted ten agonizing hours, all of which Mom said she spent in the waiting room praying for me. Relief washed over her when she found out that surgery had gone well, and when she was allowed to see me, she said I looked like my normal happy self. But I would have a long way to go before I was out of the woods. After any kind of brain trauma, which brain surgery is, it is natural for the brain to swell. Another advantage to infancy was that the doctor didn't have to remove part of my skull to allow room for the brain to swell, which has to be done for fully developed brains. But my brain swelling was still a scary event for my parents to watch. In fact, Mom told me that if she hadn't personally witnessed the swelling, she would not have recognized me if she had just walked in to the room and seen me that way. The swelling didn't last long, but that was only the first of many scary moments.

The pituitary gland, despite only being the size of a pea, is a vital component of the brain which produces hormones that regulate all kinds of bodily processes including such things as coping with physical stress (stress caused by an illness like the flu or time spent outside on a really hot summer's day), managing the growth of bone and muscle tissue, and keeping fluids and electrolytes balanced. After surgery, it was discovered that the tumor had damaged this gland when my electrolytes swung wildly for awhile. One moment I would be listless and dehydrated and the next I would be over-hydrated, which can cause sodium levels to get dangerously low, which causes seizures. I also wasn't producing the hormone that helps the body cope with physical stress. Eventually, doctors figured out the right doses of synthetic hormones for me, but for awhile, life was scary for my parents who said it seemed like I would take one step forward and then two steps back. I was also put on seizure medication until I was about two years old as a precaution since just the trauma of brain surgery can cause seizures.

My first Thanksgiving was spent in the hospital with Mom watching the Macey's Day Parade at my bedside. I was able to come home for my first Christmas, but I was sick with a fever that day.

Then in January, Mom noticed new swelling around the surgical site. At first, she didn't know what to make of it and just kept me home and watched it. But when she noticed it getting worse, she took me back to Dr. Dunn who said this was caused by fluid building up in the brain and it would need to be drained. So at the age of ten months, I had to be wheeled in to the operating room for a second brain surgery in which a shunt was placed to drain the fluid. Some brain tumor survivors require the shunt permanently, but in October of 1991 when fluid had stopped draining, Dr. Dunn and my parents decided to remove the shunt so I would not have to live with the risk of infection that comes with having foreign objects inside the body. So by the time I was a year and a half, I had undergone three brain surgeries, more than most people will undergo in their lifetime.

From a medical standpoint, my river would continue to be a little choppy for several more years. Every six months for several years, I would continue to need scans to make sure the tumor didn't come back. When I was old enough to be aware of things, these scans were procedures I dreaded as it is frightening at any age, but especially as a child, to be strapped down and wheeled in to those machines that made strange knocking and humming noises, and of course like all children, I dreaded the needle that had to be poked into a vein to administer dye. For my parents these procedures were scary because the possibility of devastating news from one of these scans always lurked in the back of their mind. My odds for survival were improved dramatically by the fact that Dr. Dunn was able to remove all of the tumor, but when you are talking about cancer, you don't want to get overly confident because it can return with a vengeance.

Even after the threat of my brain tumor's return had abated, the river hasn't always been smooth. I have to take synthetic hormones for the rest of my life as a result of the damage to my pituitary gland and I have had to deal with occasional medical complications because as wonderful as modern medicine is, synthetic hormones don't work quite as seamlessly as naturally produced hormones. Hot, humid summer days take a lot out of me, sometimes requiring me to take an extra dose of the stress hormone, and my parents have had to call 911 three times over the years when three different stomach bugs threw my electrolytes out of whack. So needless to say, I take extra precautions to reduce the risk of stomach viruses or food poisoning.

Most of the replacement hormones I needed were available in pill form. When I was really little, Mom would crush these pills in applesauce, but I mastered swallowing pills by the time I was eight years old. But one of the underlying conditions my tumor caused was diabetes insipidus. It has no relation to sugar diabetes at all. This condition means that my body does not produce a hormone that allows the body to store fluid. The endocrinologist told my parents this hormone wasn't absolutely necessary to sustain life, but certainly improves the quality of life. Without this hormone, I would be in a constant state of thirst, and would need to use the restroom very frequently. But unfortunately during childhood, even though I was prescribed this medicine, I frequently got to taste what life would be like without it. This medicine had to be dosed very carefully, as too much of this medicine in the system could cause the body to retain too much fluid, leading to low sodium and seizures. This medicine was available in pill form when I was a child, but the pill only came in adult-size doses, so I had to take it in a nasal spray form that required my parents to blow it into my nose through a tube. But this medicine wasn't very reliable. Sometimes, it just wouldn't absorb, and if I had a cold, and sometimes even if I didn't, I would sneeze the medicine out. But my parents could not administer more because there was no way of knowing if some of it still got absorbed, and the consequences of too much medicine in the system were too dangerous to take any chances. So it was not uncommon for this medicine to wear off in the middle of a school day, or for me to have to get up multiple times at night. For many years, I could not reach the kitchen cupboards to get a glass, or the faucet in the kitchen sink. Mom didn't want me drinking out of the bathroom sink, so until I was in second grade, I would have to wake my poor parents up to give me water. Once I had woken them up three or four times, they could be confident that my medicine had worn off and it was safe to give me another dose so we could get back to bed for good. Then in second grade, my parents decided to rent a water cooler, which I could easily reach, and I was designated my own plastic cup which I kept on top of the water cooler and re-used all day. Although my situation was the impetus for renting the water cooler, the whole family loved it. At that time, we had well water that was safe to drink, but didn't taste great, and because it was hard water, it made Mom's tea and coffee a gross, cloudy color. The only downside to the water cooler was the chore of carrying in the five-gallon bottles of water and hoisting them onto the water cooler, a chore usually assigned to Dad or my older brothers, but I don't remember anyone complaining about this chore because I think they realized the water tasted so wonderful it was worth the effort of replacing the bottle.

Because of the unreliability of this medicine, one of the accommodations in my education plan was that I had to be allowed to keep a water bottle with me at all times, and to be granted permission to use the restroom any time. When I was in seventh grade, I had an unempathetic math teacher, and one day, my medicine wore off and I needed to use the restroom during her class. I raised my hand, and she granted me permission, but grudgingly, saying I should have gone during lunch. Lunch was just the period before, so under normal circumstances, she would have been right, but from her response, it was clear she didn't read the letter given to all teachers about my condition, or didn't take it seriously. In any case, when I told my mom about it, she was furious and wrote this teacher a civil but angry letter. (Not long after that incident, due to other difficulties I was having in her class, I was transferred to the slower-paced Math class.) But what a blessing it was my freshman year of high school when my body chemistry changed such that I could start taking a half tablet of this medicine in pill form!

Another hormone the pituitary normally produces is growth hormone, but this hormone doesn't normally kick in until children are around four years old. Until then, their bodies grow naturally. But when I was seven and still the size of a four-year-old, my doctor realized we had a problem. Sure enough, a test revealed I was not producing this hormone, and the only means of getting this hormone was a daily shot, which I was not at all thrilled to hear. But I quickly learned to cooperate because my mom did a great job explaining how without this shot, my quality of life would be diminished. She reminded me of how I needed a family member to get me a glass for water because the cupboard where the glasses were stored was out of my reach. If I cooperated for the shot, I would be able to reach this cupboard one day. The bitter pill of finding out I would need a daily shot was also eased considerably by the fact that Mom was a registered nurse, so administering shots was nothing new for her. I may not have liked having to get a shot, but I couldn't have asked for more skilled, loving hands to administer it. With this shot, I reached a normal, functional height of 5`4. Normally, adults produce a small amount of growth hormone their entire lives, and my pediatric endocrinologist, an excellent doctor who kept up with the latest research related to my condition, thought I may need to take growth hormone my entire life because some research at that time indicated that people with my condition who stopped taking it were at higher risk of heart problems. When it was time for me to graduate to an adult endocrinologist, my pediatric endocrinologist referred me to a colleague whom he knew would continue to keep up with the latest research. A few years into adulthood, new research indicated there really is no difference in health outcomes, so I no longer have to take shots!

But while growth hormone got my growth back on track, it caused other problems in the beginning. It caused me to grow so quickly that my body went haywire. The summer between second and third grade, I became severely anemic and had no appetite. The result was that when I started third grade, I was so skinny I am told I looked like a starved child from a third-world country. With a daily iron supplement, this situation gradually resolved, but when my appetite came back, my parents were so relieved to see me eating that they allowed me to fall into bad habits so I became a little overweight as an adolescent. The doctor also discovered that I had severe Scoliosis, so from January of third grade until the fall of my freshman year in high school, I had to wear a back brace, ideally for 22 hours a day. I am not sure if the spine doctor officially endorsed it, but my parents blessedly made exceptions occasionally so that I could enjoy swimming at camp, or fit into my munchkin costume when I wanted to participate in the school production of The Wizard of Oz in fourth grade. But in order to prevent spine issues later in life, it was important that I wear the brace as much as possible. The day the doctor thought I would no longer need this brace is high in the running for the happiest day of my life. I rarely have back aches now, but I had back aches often sitting in the hard plastic brace on hard, plastic school chairs all day, and it was very difficult to find a comfortable position for sleeping at night. While not the only factor, the brace may have contributed to my not having many friends in middle school, because the only clothing that could fit over the brace were "old lady clothes" with elastic waist bands. I felt like an old lady too as the brace made it more difficult to bend over, or stand up from the floor. I briefly attended physical therapy in fourth grade and my parents were given a list of abdominal exercises to preserve muscle tone which would have addressed this very issue, but I lacked the self-motivation back then to stick with these exercises, or any exercise for that matter, and life was too hectic for my parents to fight me. But a positive attitude about the brace was largely restored by Mrs. Lillie, a neighbor and close family friend. Her sister also had Scoliosis while growing up in the 1960s and had to wear a brace, but it was nothing like my brace. One time when I went to visit her, she showed it to me. It looked more like a torture contraption, with metal bars that came all the way up to her neck. I wasn't religious at all back then, but after seeing that, I remember silently thanking God for modern medicine, and my custom-fitted, plastic brace with foam padding on the inside that only went around the middle/lower region of my spine.

And then of course, my family and I all had to learn to navigate life with blindness. Mom admitted that it was emotionally difficult to find out that I would be blind, as it would be for any parent.

"For a short time, I would get kind of sad when I would think about all the beautiful wonders you would never get to experience, like the changing colors in fall, sunrises and sunsets," said my mom, "but then I realized there were so many wonders you could still enjoy like the sound of birds singing, the smell of flowers and the feel of a warm breeze." Around the same time I lost my sight, Aunt Bootsy, an elderly relative on my mom's side had lost most of her sight and had been struggling with depression. I don't remember Aunt Bootsy, as she passed away when I was around two years old. But Mom said when Aunt Bootsy saw what a happy child I was despite being totally blind, her attitude toward her vision loss changed.

Around the time Mom found out I was blind, she read a couple scary stories in the newspaper. In one story, a local blind man fell into an elevator shaft. Apparently, the elevator door opened, and he proceeded to step into the elevator, but due to a malfunction, the elevator wasn't there yet. He ended up being okay, but the thought of this potentially happening to me someday made Mom shutter. In another story published shortly thereafter, another blind person was struck by a car. Reading these stories so soon after finding out I was blind did lead to some over-protectiveness my entire childhood. But all in all, my parents have always amazed me by how they have accepted and embraced the fact that I am blind, and faced the challenges that came our way with confidence. They have also done an excellent job teaching me to do the same.

Growing up totally blind, I have had to overcome significant challenges to achieve things my peers take for granted. But the older I get, the more I have come to recognize and appreciate the grace of God in my life right from the start. When it became apparent that I would be blind permanently, a doctor informed my parents of a state-of-the-art preschool program specifically designed to meet the unique developmental needs of blind children. At the time, my parents thought all major metropolitan areas had programs like this, but they later learned this program was the only one like it in the Midwest! At that time, the Center did not have a permanent location. They would rent space in various office buildings, and it seemed like every few years, they would have to move. Just before my time there, and the year after I graduated, the Center was located in buildings that my mom said she would have driven to, but it would have posed more of an inconvenience as they were relatively far away. But in another stroke of what my parents and I now recognize as divine intervention, during the years that I received services from the Center, it was located just a ten minute drive from our house!

I started receiving services from the Center when I was around ten months old. A few years ago when Mom and Dad told me I should consider graduate school, I jokingly replied, "I'm tired of school. I've been going to school since I was ten months old." They laughed because it was kind of true. In these early months, I think my education consisted primarily of physical therapy. Physical therapy was very important in my case because I had two strikes against me. Because my right side had been paralyzed for awhile, I lost muscle tone on that side and had to regain my strength. Then, because I was blind, I couldn't learn to crawl or walk by watching others as typical children do, so I had to be taught these things. This is probably the age when I would have laid in that cubby with the dangling plates and spoons, so I did get some early sensory experiences as well.

Mom says that physical therapy was the only time when I did cry a little at school. The activities weren't always fun, and I absolutely hated the idea of crawling. In fact, I actually have snippets of memory of me sitting and scooting on my bottom to get around the house, which I much preferred over crawling. The physical therapists told my mom that crawling is a critical developmental milestone that could not be skipped, but Mom suspects she knew why I hated it.

"You were no dummy! You knew that if you crawled, the first thing that would find an obstacle would be your head. Why would anyone want to get around that way?" Mom told me once.

It's funny how although we change a lot as we mature, some things never change. I still hate to crawl. Of course, now that I can walk, crawling is no longer necessary on an everyday basis. But if I drop something, I will first utter a swear word, then pull off a shoe, search for the item with my foot, and pull it back to me so I can bend over and pick it right up. If I cannot find it with my foot and have to get on my hands and knees to search more intensively, I utter another swear word. Getting on my hands and knees to look for something is only done as a last resort! But just as with Math later in life, I eventually sucked it up and crawled just enough to graduate.

In these early years, my physical development was delayed, which was to be expected for the simple reason that my brain tumor came to light right around the age when most children start crawling, so because I was paralyzed and sick most of those months, development was put on hold. Therefore, I didn't crawl until I was almost two and didn't really master walking until I was four years old.

Until I was around two and a half years old, my mom had been a stay-at-home mom, but because my dad was uncertain about his job security, Mom decided to take a job as a home care nurse for another child with a disability. She would work second shift, and I remember her picking me up from my morning at the Center, which ended at 11:30, bringing me home, fixing lunch, greeting my siblings when they came home from school and heading off to work.

Legally, my brother Ben was the babysitter because he was old enough, but my sister Rebecca--who it's crazy to think would have only been eight or nine at the time--was a natural when it came to babysitting, and she became like my second mom when Mom was at work.

I don't personally remember this, but Mom said Rebecca would practice what I had been doing in therapy with me. Somehow, Mom came to realize that I would walk for the therapists, and I would walk for my sister, but I would not walk for her and Dad.

Mom asked the physical therapist about this one day, and she said this is natural behavior for children my age. I guess psychologically, children at that age believe that if they demonstrate too much independence, their parents will abandon them. I don't remember what the professionals did to overcome this, but I was walking without a second thought by the time I was four. But when I heard that I would walk for my sister, it warmed my heart and made me realize we have a special bond.

It was through my sister that Mom also discovered I wasn't sleeping at night. This, my mom was told, is also common with blind children. Since they cannot tell time, nor can they tell light from dark, it is not uncommon for their circadian rhythm to become completely messed up, which is what happened with me. I would basically sleep all day and want to stay up all night and play! I shared a bedroom with my sister until one night when my mom heard noise in the bathroom, woke up and almost tripped over me, who was casually playing on the floor as if it were the middle of the day.

"She does that every night," my sister confided to Mom, "I try to coax her back to bed." Upon learning this, I was given my own room, and when I couldn't sleep, Mom stayed up with me, passing the time by ordering supplies the family needed over the phone from Sears catalogs. For some blind people, this problem persists into adulthood. It is actually a recognized medical condition called Non24, and I have seen commercials advertising a medication for this condition. A few years ago when the medication was in clinical trials, I received several letters in braille trying to recruit me, but I declined because once I started having a more consistent school routine, and thus a better perception of time, this issue resolved on its own. I am still a bit of a night-owl. When my parents are sleepy and hit the sack by 10:00, I have been known to stay up reading or writing until 1:30 in the morning. But Mom says this has nothing to do with the fact that I am blind. It's genetic. I take after my brother Ben.

In those early years, feeding me was also a challenge. The Center worked on this issue quite a bit, but it was an ongoing problem that continued to require patience when I graduated to elementary school. In those few years, there were only three things I would reliably eat: spaghetti-os, applesauce and milk. Mom suspects that because I was blind, my other senses were heightened and thus I had aversions to many textures. So I am told many hours of my time at the Center were spent cajoling me to try a variety of foods.

Despite all the challenges I had to overcome in those years, there was plenty of time left for fun, and I have fond memories of fun times at the Center. The classroom was full of delightful sensory toys, from a tub that was filled with rice on some days, and water on others, to braille books with tactile pictures, to tambourines and drums. I remember having a blast when we were free to play. On occasion, a local musician named Tony would visit our classroom and play drums for us.

The Center had school year-round, but at that age, I had no conception of time anyway. When the weather was warm, we often took field trips, and looking back, these field trips probably coincided with summer vacation for regular schools because my siblings often came along to help out on these trips. Sometimes, we would go to a nearby park to play in the sand and swim in the lake. It was on one of these trips I vaguely remember throwing a tantrum because we were going to go for a boat ride and I wanted to ride the boat but didn't like the feel of the lifejacket. I'm not sure how that ended up getting resolved. When I was a little older, I remember using my cane to walk to a nearby Walgreens and bringing back animal crackers for the principal. I remember visiting farms and petting animals, but I especially enjoyed horseback riding. In our community, there is a place simply called The Ranch, which caters to people with special needs. Sometimes we would go there, and sometimes, they even brought horses to the Center. The horses they used with us were older and extremely well-trained, so well-trained that Mom said I had absolutely no fear of the horse. In fact, as someone who had ridden a horse as a child that was wild and tried to buck her off, she was a little terrified when she saw me sitting on a giant horse, calm as can be, not even holding onto the saddle. I was definitely ignorant of how big horses are and how far I would fall if I fell. Ignorance really is bliss.

Perhaps if we lived on a farm, I could have become an expert rider, but as it was, horseback riding was such a rare activity once I left the Center that if I got on a horse now, I would be terrified.

Those were my preschool days, idyllic days my five-year-old self didn't understand were about to end. But on a Friday in August, just two weeks before I would start kindergarten, I celebrated my first graduation. I didn't really understand what graduation meant. I knew it was something special because Granny and Papaw came to be there for it, and I got cake and presents. I feel like one of my presents was a rain stick, which I enjoyed playing with that day. But while I was oblivious to the significance of this milestone, I think for my parents, this graduation was akin to celebrating survival following a brutal storm. Sure, they knew the waters ahead were uncertain. But given that I was graduating pre-school at the same age as my sighted peers when just a few years earlier, doctors weren't sure I would live to experience pre-school, they were optimistic that my future could only get brighter.

I think these early challenges brought my parents closer to God, but I was too young to remember the brain surgeries, and the challenges associated with being blind were just a normal part of life for me. It wasn't until high school that I began to discern that I wanted my life to count for God for reasons completely unrelated to these challenges. But as an adult looking back on all the "coincidences" that fell into place that prove God's grace and sovereign intervention in my life, I see these blessings as all the more reason to want my life to count for God.

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"Brake now," Dad called out. The tires of our 1989 Toyota Camry squealed as I slammed on the brake.

We both laughed and Dad said, "Don't worry. When I say brake now, I will give you plenty of time to come to a smooth stop, so you can press the brake pedal slowly."

It was March 26, 2006, a Sunday morning and my sixteenth birthday. But I always knew I would never hold a driver's license. When I was seven months old, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor that damaged my optic nerve, leaving me totally blind. I was blessed to grow up with the protection of the Americans with Disabilities Act, passed in August 1990, just two months before my brain tumor was diagnosed. I was also blessed to grow up in an affluent school district that was willing and able to provide all the support I needed, including technology, a classroom aid and a vision rehabilitation specialist who taught me everything from braille, to cooking, to Orientation and Mobility (how to travel using a white cane). But most important of all, I was blessed to grow up surrounded by parents and teachers with high expectations for me, and positive attitudes about blindness who told me that with just a little adaptation, I could live a rich, normal life, and there were very few things I couldn't do. As a result, I was a happy teenager with a 3.7 GPA who sang in two choirs and was eagerly anticipating college. I had always accepted that driving was one of those very few things I wouldn't be able to do, and I quickly overcame mild twinges of sadness hearing other kids at school chatter excitedly about getting their licenses by reminding myself of all that I could do, and by considering some advantages to not driving. Since I didn't have to be attentive to the road, I could use the drive to school to do some last-minute studying for a test, or to take a quick nap if I was up late finishing homework, and I was spared from the harrowing experiences my friends talked about driving to school on icy roads. I had fully accepted and anticipated that my sixteenth birthday would be just another happy but uneventful birthday.

"You want to go driving?" Dad asked when I woke up that morning. At first, I wasn't sure. I was cautious, even as a teenager, and while the prospect of a memorable experience driving on my sixteenth birthday was exciting, I didn't want this birthday to be memorable because I wrecked the car! But the excitement won out over my caution and I heard myself say, "Sure!"

So after breakfast, Dad drove to an empty parking lot where we traded places. I sat in the driver's seat and while my dad would handle the gas pedal, I would get to brake and steer.

For ten minutes, I drove around the parking lot, Dad calling out, "Brake now," or "Turn left." It was thrilling to feel the car respond to me, and by the end of that ten minutes, I was a pretty smooth driver if I do say so myself! But equally thrilling was gushing to my close friends and favorite teachers the following day at school about how I got to drive on my sixteenth birthday.

I am 32 years old now, but I still think about this experience and smile. As an adult who is still cautious, I have come to appreciate even more how this experience may have accelerated the greying of his hair. But I am eternally grateful to Dad for making my sixteenth birthday special, which, when you are a teenager, means a lot.

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I am about to embark on what will likely be the most important blog post I ever write. Unlike most of my blog posts which have no higher purpose other than to unravel my thoughts about my own life, I sense that this post could change other people’s lives. And after this blog post, when I go back to rambling about my life, I get the sense that I will be referring back to this post a lot. While most other blog posts were written because I wanted to share them, I felt a strange stirring inside, a sense that I NEEDED to write this blog post. If I neglected to write it, I would be brushing off an order from God. So my prayer is that God will give me the right words to do justice to the incredible insights I have received lately, and that this joy will be contagious and transform other lives.

In June 2015, Dad, Gilbert and I were taking an evening walk when a neighbor who is one of Jehovah’s Witnesses was out walking her dog too. I don’t think I had met this neighbor before this, but we hit it off and became fast friends. She was curious and amazed about how I managed life as a blind person, and asked if she could come over to my house a few days later to chat more, and if I was interested in a bible study. I said yes to this, and was excited about the prospect of learning more about this faith. Even as a small child, something intrigued me about Jehovah’s Witnesses. Maybe it was the genuine compassion and interest they showed in me when I ran to the door out of curiosity, or maybe I was enamored by their passion and dedication to their cause. There must be something special about a religion that inspires people to go door-to-door talking to strangers about it. When I was older and had picked up a few more tidbits about this religion, including the fact that they didn’t celebrate birthdays or holidays like Christmas, I would find myself feeling disheartened when my parents, and one time my grandma would beat me to the door and be very polite and courteous to them, while also making it very clear they were not interested in learning about the faith. I wanted to be more open-minded.

Almost every Saturday for the next two years, this neighbor and another witness would come to my house and we slowly studied the organization’s introductory book “What Does the Bible Really Teach?” I also went to several Tuesday night bible studies at their kingdom hall, and even attended the memorial for the death of Christ in 2016, which is their version of Good Friday, except that they observe it on the first full moon of spring, no matter what day of the week it is. I did not end up converting because there were some theological things I didn’t agree with, which I will talk about in a future post. But one chapter of the book filled me with a deep sense of joy and anticipation that I had never experienced before. This chapter taught that when we die, we will not go to heaven. Instead, we will just be asleep in a sense, but when Christ returns, everyone all through human history will be resurrected and those who follow Him will live forever on a paradise earth, free of all the sin, sickness, trouble and even disabilities that plague this current system. Elmbrook Church is a bible-believing church of course, and they do believe that Christ would return and this troubled world would not be that way forever, but Elmbrook church, like most mainstream Christian churches, focuses on how to live a Christ-centered life in the here and now. When eternity is discussed, it is usually discussed in an abstract, churchy way. To be shown verses I had never paid attention to which showed we would not be spending eternity in some abstract heaven in the sky, but here on a beautifully restored Earth free of sin and trouble was exhilarating.

Years ago I heard an old country song by Red Foley called “Peace in the Valley.” The second verse says, “The bear will be gentle, and the wolf will be tame. And the lion shall lay down by the lamb. And the beast from the wild will be led by a child, and I’ll be changed from this creature that I am.” I always felt compelled to stop what I was doing and drink in this song when it came on the radio, and it was one of the first songs I looked for to download on iTunes when I got an iPad for Christmas in 2011. It turned out that I think God had been trying to speak to me for years through this song because one Saturday in our bible study, I gasped as I realized that the words to this beautiful song were lifted right from Isaiah 11-6:9. I was absolutely giddy, and the witnesses agreed that God had been speaking to me. I played the song for them, and they enjoyed it too. When our bible study for that day had ended and the witnesses left, my parents and I decided to go out for lunch at Chipotle. I don’t usually share what we talked about in bible study because while my parents are open to me being open-minded and studying with them, they were not interested in learning about this faith themselves and I tried to respect that. So when they would ask how bible study was, I would just reply with a cursory, “it was good” or “it was interesting.” But that Saturday, I was so giddy I couldn’t resist launching into an excited tangent in the car on the way to Chipotle about the life to come on a paradise earth. But before I could finish, Dad shut the conversation down with a firm “that’s just one interpretation.” Maybe he was right. I was allowing myself to get a one-sided interpretation of the bible, skipping the critical analysis recommended by all my college professors. But oh how the child in me wanted this interpretation to be true. At the time I was in the thick of my anxiety and feelings of hopelessness, working full-time in a job I had no idea how to do, and this bible study infused me with new hope and joy that I desperately needed at the time. So I decided that I was going to have the heart of a child, something Jesus encourages, and quietly embrace this interpretation. With this decision made, I began to let my imagination go wild and think about what I was most looking forward to on a paradise earth. This decision spawned many amazing and thrilling conversations with the witnesses on Saturdays, but I was careful to keep these thoughts to myself around everyone else. One Tuesday when I went to a kingdom hall bible study last summer, everyone was encouraged to do what I had been doing, and again I came home giddy. My dad noticed this giddiness when I walked in, but I didn’t tell him why this time. I was not going to let myself be deflated again.

In August 2017, I stopped studying with the Jehovah’s Witnesses and had what was for me a very difficult conversation about how I didn’t agree with everything Jehovah’s Witnesses believed, and didn’t want to leave Elmbrook because God has spoken to me there too. But we are still friends, and I still think about the coming paradise earth a lot. Since I love music and sing in choir, I noticed that other songs, especially country songs, would trigger thoughts about the paradise earth. For example, one day, my parents and I were watching a movie and during the closing credits, they played Gene Autry’s rendition of “Don’t Fence me in.” “oh give me land lots of land under starry skies above. Don’t fence me in. Let me ride through the wide open country that I love. Don’t fence me in.” Hearing that it occurred to me that in this current system I sometimes feel fenced in by my blindness. It is not safe for me to leave the house without a dog, cane or person, and even with these things, I don’t feel totally free. In unfamiliar settings, a sighted person is in the driver’s seat, directing me where to go, even when I am using a cane or dog. But through this song it was as if God was telling me that in the new system, I will not be fenced in. With sight restored, I could run out the door all by myself and just wander wide open woodlands, going wherever the spirit leads me. And maybe I could even find a horse to ride to the top of a hill where I could appreciate for the first time what sighted people mean when they talk about having a stunning view.

Then one Sunday this past February, I was in a weekly apologetics class offered at Elmbrook when the instructor recommended that everyone, especially millennials read this piece. This article was very thought-provoking for me, someone who is a millennial, and I will talk more about it in a future post. But after reading the piece, I was just exploring the rest of the website as I sometimes like to do, and found out that the author of that piece had also written some books, one of which caught my attention. The book was called All Things New: Heaven, Earth, and the Restoration of Everything You Love. This sounded like it could be a book about the new system, the paradise earth! To my delight, it was available on Bookshare, so I downloaded it, and indeed, it was about the new system to come! John Eldredge called it the Restoration. To hear a mainstream Christian thought leader, embrace and write a whole book on the new system, a topic that I have never really heard pastors talk about, was refreshing and thrilling, because I felt like I now had renewed permission to think about and hope for this new system. Eldredge points out in this book that ever since we lost the garden of Eden, we are “like cut flowers.” We appear to be fine, but deep down, we ache for something, and we cannot place what it is. We find fleeting happiness in a new car, or the next adventure or dinner out, but this happiness doesn’t last. When I read this, I think I gasped to myself as a post I wrote back in 2013 came back to me. As a child, I would have these bizarre obsessions about nontraditional people like dogsled racers and pioneers who live off the land. I couldn’t understand why these things fascinated me so much as I wasn’t by any means an outdoorsy person who liked rugged living, unless I just admired them because they bucked the status quo and did something different rather than just being good little soldiers and settling for boring office jobs that didn’t fulfill them. While I didn’t actually want to live like a pioneer or race sled dogs across the wilderness of Alaska, I longed to figure out what a counter-cultural life would look like for me. I wasn’t aware of the Restoration back in third grade, but even then, that was what I was looking for. Eldredge also says in a later chapter, “most humans are profoundly thwarted in their calling here because of wounding, assault, envy, or circumstances that would never let them fly.” Due to a severe recession that was in full swing when I graduated from college, combined with a changing journalism field that was doing more with less and thus no longer felt welcoming to me, I have indeed felt thwarted in my calling by circumstances that would not let me fly. Because of this reality, Eldredge says that for most humans, their jobs range from disappointing to oppressive. While I am blessed to have a job that is not oppressive, it would be a lie to say I haven’t felt disappointed, even now with my part-time schedule. I am content enough in my job. All aspects of the job are accessible for me, and the people I work with are wonderful, but it is definitely not my “calling.” I often ache for, feel as though I was made for, something more. In the thick of my anxiety working full-time, I remember grasping at straws after work. I looked at writing classes, graduate schools in public policy, a class I did well in and enjoyed in college, and even whether it would be feasible to start a food truck selling healthy soups or salads. But the writing classes and graduate schools didn’t stir me with enough passion to go through with the rigors of applying for and paying for these programs, and my parents said (rightly) that a food truck would not be feasible with my disabilities. At that time, this lack of clarity, this feeling that my dreams were constantly being thwarted filled me with a sense of hopelessness. Now I realize I was longing for the restoration, when we will all be unencumbered and able to reach our fullest potential.

This post is getting long, so I will discuss practical implications for how these insights could shape my life in the here and now in the next post. But I want to close this post with an exercise Eldredge recommends everyone do, and which I had already been doing with the witnesses. I am going to share the first three things I would love to do at the Restoration. Thinking about the Restoration in this personal, practical way makes this hope more tangible, and as I will elaborate more on in the next post, this tangible hope will make this current life seem less hopeless, even if our circumstances don’t change. I would love to hear about your own dreams in the comments as well.

First, I would love to take a walk with Jesus, the way my dad and I enjoy taking walks on summer nights in this world. Jesus and I are similar in personality in that we both like quiet and solitude, so we may spend long periods just walking in silence, just enjoying the breeze on our faces and the sounds of birds, but we would also have deep conversations about why events in my life unfolded the way they did, what I could have done differently, or when He was intervening and I didn’t even notice. Then, I would love to strike out on the most epic vacation ever, one where I am in the driver’s seat. It would include running or riding on horseback through wide open country, as well as going to Africa to see and even pet lions or elephants which I have heard described as magnificent, but right now I can only listen to someone reading a plaquerd about these animals at the zoo because I cannot see and they are too dangerous to touch. The trip would also include sitting around a fire or table with people freely enjoying bread again because Celiac Disease will be no more. Finally, I would love to be a singer in a huge choir of thousands, maybe even millions of voices, many of whom would be people who would love to sing now but are too busy with the troubles and demands of this world to have time for choir. This choir would not struggle to raise money to stay afloat like so many choirs in this world, and since everyone would be free of health issues and the stresses of unfulfilling day jobs, they would come to rehearsal and not be exhausted or pre-occupied, and thus would sing with a more genuine joy.

I am sure more thoughts will come to mind, and I look forward to sharing them as they take shape in future posts. And as I said, I will discuss practical implications for what these thoughts mean for the here and now in my next post. But in the meantime, if you are feeling discouraged, thwarted in pursuing your dreams, hopeless, or just longing for something more, rather than succumbing to hopelessness, or grasping at straws like I have done, or looking for escape in a silly television show or the next dinner out, I urge you to start dreaming instead of the Restoration.

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Even if sensible gun regulations are implemented, I have heard multiple experts say it will be awhile before we notice a reduction in violent crime because there are so many guns in circulation, but even if we could hypothetically pull all guns out of circulation today, someone intent on killing people could find another way. The thousands of years of human history before the invention of modern guns was plagued by violence committed using bows and arrows, swords, wild animals, stones, and of course, the cross. In my community just before Thanksgiving, a disturbed individual killed six people at a Christmas parade by intentionally plowing through the parade with his car. Early Christians permanently transformed Western society, ending the practice of gladiator rings, starting the first orphanages for unwanted children, and the first hospitals, and caring for the poor and the widowed, and in so doing, opening the eyes of many metaphorically blind people to the value of all human life. But until Christ returns and transforms hearts, there will always be people who reject him, a rejection that is externally reflected by conduct that does not value every human life, and thus, there will always be violence. But just because we mortal humans have no hope of completely eradicating violence by our own power does not give us permission to just throw in the towel, let the world crumble around us and just hunker down and endure life until God takes us to heaven. Scripture is clear that we should do what we can to seek the "peace and prosperity of the city to which I (God) have carried you into exile" because when it prospers, we also prosper (Jeremiah 29:7). For context, this verse is part of a letter that the prophet Jeremiah addressed to Israelites exiled to Babylon. False prophets had told them that this exile would be very brief and they would be able to return to their homeland quickly, an assurance which encouraged the Israelites not to get comfortable, or settle into the new land. Jeremiah's purpose is to correct this disinformation, as God told him the exile would last seventy years, so the people should settle down, plant crops, marry, have children, and seek the peace and prosperity of their new land. But the concept of exile is a recurring theme in the Bible, and the New Testament teaches that all who wish to follow him should think of themselves as exiles. This world which has for the most part rejected Him, is not our true home. Yet it is his will that we live here awhile for the purpose of shining light into the darkness, drawing people to us by the way we live our lives and thus ultimately drawing lost people to Him.

For my American church history course this past semester, I had to read a monograph and write a critical book review. The book I chose to read was "The Color of Compromise" written by Jemar Tisby. In the opening chapter, Jemar Tisby recounts the horrific bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham September 15, 1963 which killed four young black girls. The following day, a local white lawyer, Charles Morgan Jr. gave a speech at a luncheon at the all-white Young Men's Business Club where he stated that it really doesn't matter who planted the bomb because i a sense, "we all did it." This speech resulted in death threats to him and his family, to the point that he ended up closing his practice, moving away and starting a new career in civil rights law. But Jemar Tisby praised this lawyer's bravery and willingness to speak the truth which would become the overarching theme of Jemar Tisby's book, which is that "the most egregious acts of racism, like a church bombing, occur within a context of compromise" (Page 18). Every crude racist joke, every use of the n-word, "provided fertile soil for the seeds of hatred to grow" (Page 18). I agree with Jemar Tisby's argument, and I believe this idea of complicity could be applied to gun violence as well. I believe Christians today have the capability, the privilege, and duty to continue reforming society just as the early Christians did. I don't have all the answers as to how we could do this, but I think an excellent place to start would be for professed Christians to recognize and work toward ending our complicity with the violent culture. First and foremost, I think this means studying Scripture to make sure we aren't practicing Christian nationalism, which isn't really Christian at all, as a key feature of Christian nationalism is the conception of Jesus as a white American image of rugged masculinity. The modern conception of masculinity shames boys for crying when Scripture states that Jesus wept when his friend Lazarus died (even though he knew that God would resurrect Lazarus on his behalf) and Peter wept bitterly when the rooster crowed and he had denied Jesus three times, just as Jesus foretold he would. I am sure there are even more instances of men crying in Scripture that just aren't coming to my mind right now. Christian nationalism hijacks the God of the Bible by reshaping and reducing him to an idol of our own imagination. One of the books I want to read this summer is "Jesus and John Wayne" which my church history professor briefly mentioned, and after reading this book, I am sure I will be inspired to write another blog with new insights on this subject. But I think I understand the issue enough to say with confidence that although there was a great deal of warfare in the Old Testament, Jesus is supposed to have transformed our hearts to seek peace, and to recognize that "all who draw the sword will die by the sword" (Matthew 26:52). To that end, I believe all Christians should follow the example of Quakers and Jehovah's Witnesses who are pacifists. Even if our country is directly attacked, Christians should bow out and leave even defensive warfare to the secular world, recognizing that this country, determined by man-made borders is not our true home, and it is more important to pledge our allegiance to God by valuing all human life and leaving justice to Him.

Scripture permits the killing and eating of animals, and thus I think hunting is permissible. No one in our family carried on the hunting tradition after Papaw passed away. We are people who prefer the modern sanitized convenience of buying our meat from the grocery store and not having to think too much about where it came from, but I had a friend in college whose father killed a deer every year during hunting season and stored the meat in the freezer, which fed her family for months. There is nothing wrong with this. (As an aside, I think it is worth mentioning that respect for all of God's creation mandates we only take what we need, which precludes hunting animals for the sole purpose of displaying their heads as trophies.) In any case, you do not need an assault weapon to kill a deer, and in fact when describing the power of an assault weapon to me, Mom once said if you shot a deer with such a gun, you wouldn't have any meat left to eat! Christians should only own guns for hunting purposes, or for people living in rural areas to kill aggressive wildlife (as a last resort if more humane measures have proven ineffective, or the animal displays clear signs of having rabies). In my personal opinion, there are countless recreational activities that are more constructive than going to a shooting range, but I don't think there is anything unbiblical about this activity done in moderation, and gun ranges could be useful for people to practice shooting if they haven't been hunting or needed to kill an aggressive animal for awhile. But if recreation is your only reason for wanting a gun, why not just rent a gun when you get to the range, and return it when you leave? That way you can enjoy an afternoon of shooting for pleasure, and then go home and sleep easy with no worry that your gun could be stolen and used in a crime, found by a child or accessed by yourself or a family member someday in an impulsive act of desperation during a difficult season.

Christians should be the most passionate proponents of gun safety to ensure that their guns do not take human life. All Christians should follow Papaw's lead and hide their guns so thoroughly that your children grow up not knowing where they were kept, and keep the bullets completely separate from the gun. Of course, this would make it difficult to use the gun for defense against an intruder, but if Christians are truly fearful of harm coming to them or their families at the hands of another human, they should carry something like mace to temporarily hinder the perpetrator until law enforcement can arrive and arrest them, which both respects the value of all human life, and avoids the irreversible mistake of being startled and accidentally killing a family member you thought was an intruder, a heartbreaking tragedy which occasionally makes the news.

Although I believe this is a fringe view, I think I would be remiss if I didn't address the rationale of some that ownership of powerful guns is necessary because they may potentially need them in the future to resist a tyrannical government. It is tempting to mock such views, but I am trying to empathize by considering that at some point, we all have wild ideas, idealistic visions, especially in youth. I liken this view to when I was a teenager whose interest in journalism was sparked by Buck Williams, the brave journalist in the Left Behind Series who left his secure life at a secular newspaper to accept Christ and expose the truth about the anti-Christ even in the face of persecution. I glowed with pride my junior year of high school when I got an internship at a local newspaper where I was treated like an adult, given my own byline for a couple of real news articles and even assigned to report election results back to the editors in a 2007 local election. I couldn't wait to graduate college and then save the world, expose lies, hold corrupt politicians accountable. But when I graduated college, the journalism landscape and the economy had changed, and I could not find a job in this field. This is not intended to be a pity party though because I realize now that even if I had landed a dream job in a news room, I really wouldn't have made much of a difference in the world. I mean, look at how much ink was spent, how many television documentaries were made in 2015 and 2016 on Donald Trump's complete lack of integrity and yet other forces prevailed and he was elected as our 45th president. Look at how many heartbreaking interviews journalists have conducted with grieving parents after a mass shooting, and yet many politicians are still steadfast in their unwillingness to pass sensible gun legislation. I am not saying that journalism has no value. If we didn't have dedicated journalists to expose Donald Trump for who he is, more people might have been charmed into voting for him due to simple ignorance. If journalists didn't interview grieving parents or survivors of gun violence, the public would have been largely ignorant about these tragedies too and therefore would not have mobilized to organize marches to demand action from legislators. But journalism must be kept in proper perspective. I had to accept that even the most brilliant and dedicated journalists are no match for the powerful forces of this fallen world. Similarly I think, a few individuals with assault rifles would in reality be no match for the capabilities a tyrannical government would have: truly rigged elections, if there are elections at all, kangaroo courts, virtually inescapable surveillance, bombs, chemical weapons. We all need to abandon childish fantasies and recognize that we mere mortals really cannot change the world, at least not by conventional methods.

Even in Jesus's day, when people started to recognize that Jesus was the messiah they had long waited for, they had idealistic visions of him riding into Jerusalem, overthrowing the oppressive Roman empire and establishing himself as an earthly king. They had difficulty accepting the far less glamorous reality that Jesus had to be crucified and die to fulfill Scripture. We need to show mercy to Lauren Boebert instead of laughing at her (as difficult as that is) who joked at a recent Christian conference where she was invited to speak that if Jesus would have had multiple AR-15s, he could have stopped his government from killing him. From her tone it is obvious she is joking, but given the extent to which nationalism has hijacked Christianity and caused people to idolize guns, I personally think she is only half joking. But we should think of her as one of many lost sheep whom nationalism and the gun lobby have led astray. The truth of course is that Jesus actually did have a comparable (superior really) celestial equivalent to the AR-15: as the son of God, he could have called on his father in heaven who would have sent "more than twelve legions of angels" to slay his persecutors and save him (Matthew 26:53). But Jesus said his crucifixion had to happen so that Scripture could be fulfilled and our sin could be forgiven. In the same way, I think we were meant to imitate Jesus by patiently enduring any persecution that may come from a tyrannical government, and to resist not by drawing guns, but by simply living righteously, drawing people to us, and therefore to Christ by our radical, countercultural lifestyles just as the early Christians did.

Speaking of a radical, countercultural lifestyle, this is the perfect segue to my final idea, perhaps the most controversial, but I think the most important means of reforming hearts in our society. I believe violence could be reduced if violence wasn't so casually interwoven in our culture: our music, movies, toys, video games, even true crime podcasts and television programs like Dateline. The community where my mom was raised was on the right track in strictly prohibiting children from pointing toy guns at one another. But perhaps it is time to go further and stop marketing toy guns to children, encouraging nonviolent "good guy" play instead such as fire trucks to put out pretend fires and rescue innocent people, or encourage children to imagine cops-and-robbers scenarios where they arrest the pretend robber and march him back to a pretend store to return what he stole, instead of just shooting him. I remember my science teacher from sixth grade explaining to us that candy cigarettes were first created by the tobacco companies as a marketing tactic. Smoking real cigarettes does not appeal to very young children, but the companies knew that if children had happy childhood memories of candy cigarettes, some of them would be drawn to real cigarettes when they grew up. I believe the same rationale could be applicable with toy guns. Even though most children who play with toy guns won't grow up to kill real people, I think our culture could benefit from re-imagining childhood play, especially for boys to make sure that at least for the next generation, children do not even subconsciously associate violence with happy memories and carefree play.

Even I am complicit in this violent culture. I don't watch violent movies, but not so much due to moral superiority, but the simple fact that the racket of gunfire on TV almost gives me a headache. (Several war movies are available with audio description, so I could follow these movies if I wanted to). I don't play video games, but that could merely be because as far as I know, video games are entirely visual. But I love old country songs, especially the gunfighter ballads of artists like Marty Robins. They are beautiful musically, and the stories they tell are fun to listen to, and sing along with. I am not obsessed with true crime as some people are, but I do enjoy watching the occasional Dateline murder mystery. Of course, most adults who watch true crime shows or enjoy singing along to gunfighter ballads would never even think of committing an act of violence in real life. But as far back as August 2019 when I was inspired to reflect on what daily life might look like after the restoration,I started to wonder if we might look back on our former lives and shudder about how much time we spent being entertained by murder mysteries. This thought returned in my reflection on our country's gun violence epidemic, and I have come to the conviction that our consumption of violence as entertainment devalues human life. I know that if someone in my family was murdered, I would be pretty upset if my family's tragedy was made into a TV show that millions of people might enjoy cozy on the couch, maybe with a bowl of popcorn on a Friday night, enjoying the suspense as to who might have killed my family member, or whether the jury will find him guilty or not guilty. And when I am walking on the treadmill singing along to Marty Robins about the stranger with the big iron on his hip, it is all too easy to get lost in the music, Marty Robins's rich voice and a joyful melody that evokes romanticized images of the wild west and forget that the song is about an outlaw coming to take the life of someone's son, brother or father. Given the alarming increase in violence, and even the increasing global instability, Christians should take the lead in living radically, eschewing media that has a negative influence on the subconsciouses of people of all ages and backgrounds, media that associates violence with suspense, bravery, justice, honor, or anything other than the senseless taking of the life of someone's son or daughter, brother or sister, mother or father.

Be assured readers that I fully intend to practice what I preach. Last night, I deleted two Marty Robins gunfighter ballads that came to mind right away, as well as some modern country songs depicting violence that I have enjoyed. These include "Goodbye Earl from the Dixie Chicks which narrates the story of two friends conspiring to kill an abusive husband and live happily ever after, as well as "Courtesy of the Red White and Blue" and "Beer for my Horses" from Toby Keith which both glorify violence and are also glaring examples of white American folk religion. I am already thinking of a few more songs that I will be deleting right away after I publish this. The only ballad I kept is a Johnny Cash song, "Don't Take Your Guns to Town." The song tells the story of Billy Joe, a restless young man who wants to leave the farm, but his mother pleads with him "don't take your guns to town, son." This plea is the refrain that haunts the entire song. He assures his mother that he is a man now, and rides into town giddy but also nervous. To calm himself, he enters a bar and orders his first strong liquor, but when another man in the bar laughs at him, he is filled with rage and reaches for one of his guns, but the stranger draws his gun faster and kills Billy Joe. The melody and tone of the song is somber. The instrumentation at the beginning and end of the song sounds like a funeral bell tolling. In short, the song does not glorify guns. It is a heartbreaking, cautionary tale.

Yes, this is radical, and I know some readers might understandably charge that I am going overboard. But the inspiration for this radical idea came from another brilliant quote from Dallas Willard later in his chapter on the power structures of this world. According to Dallas Willard, "The tyrants, satanic forces, and oppressive practices of this world play upon our "merely decent" lives as a master organist dominates his or her instrument but is wholly powerless without it" (Spirit of the Disciplines, Page 234). What I believe Dallas Willard is arguing is that while your average normal, decent person claims to abhor evil acts such as an elementary school shooting, these "mad individuals" are a product of our culture, and while education, or church attendance, or new laws may have a small degree of positive impact, we cannot truly get to the root of the causes of evil with superficial solutions that allow us to go on living our lives as we always have. The only effective treatment for the disease of evil in our world is character transformation. Of course, universal character transformation will not occur in this country because we are not (and never were) an exclusively Christian nation, and we certainly do not want to live in a man-made theocracy of forced conformity as history has proven this system comes with hypocrisy and evil of its own. (I will be elaborating more on this in the near future given current events). But true Christians can no longer afford to go to church one hour a week and give lip-service to our belief in Christ, and then come home and plunge right back into an angry culture of hate and division that glorifies violence, as too many Christians, especially white evangelicals do today. I believe Christians today could take the lead in bringing about significant positive change in our world, just as the first-century Christians did, but this can only happen if we live as Jesus commanded, in this world but not of this world. Dallas Willard is no longer living, but I get the sense that if he were alive to comment on current events, he would call for Christians to make this radical change of lifestyle.

Even if there is a widespread movement of radical character transformation led by Christians, the loss of innocence is likely here to stay. It breaks my heart that active shooter drills are standard practice in elementary school, and I cannot promise future sons, daughters, nieces or nephews that their elementary school is an impenetrable fortress. But it is my hope that I can at least tell them that we have made progress, that violence is not as prevalent as it used to be, that we are working toward a more perfect union, not in the nationalistic sense, but a more perfect union with Christ.

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Hello readers. I am sorry it has been so long since my last post. I really hoped to write something at least once a week now that I am on summer vacation, but somehow--I am still not entirely sure how--I irritated my sciatic nerve, and was in so much pain for a couple weeks, and sleepy due to a muscle relaxer an urgent care doctor prescribed, and the increased use of ibuprofen he recommended, that I didn't feel like writing. I feel so much better now. I am almost back to my normal activity level although if I bend over too long or trip over something, I can feel the nerve throb a little. Mornings are also still a little humbling to the point that I find myself singing a line from a Garth Brooks song, "I'm much too young to feel this damn old" as the nerve is so stiff from sleeping all night, and possibly being a little dehydrated (which the doctor said causes muscles to contract) that I am limping for the first couple hours until the muscles have absorbed some ibuprofen and had time to wake up. But the doctor said given how large this nerve is, it takes a good month for such an injury to heal, and Thursday will be the one month mark.

In other news, I earned an 84% on my human dignity research paper, not the greatest grade, but not the worst either. But as I mentioned, this paper was personal for me, so the score doesn't really matter to me. I am still waiting on the feedback, and once I receive the feedback, I still plan to share my essay here, but in the meantime, recent events have inspired me to contemplate another issue that I also think is relevant to the topic of human dignity. I wish I could have published this in a more timely fashion, as the Uvalde tragedy has already receded from the news cycle. But as I have discussed before, I like to put a lot of thought into my posts. I like to give my writing my best--as in, not making myself write when I am not feeling great unless I have to meet a school deadline--and especially regarding this subject, I wanted to make sure my post wasn't a collection of partisan talking points, but a balanced and thoughtful commentary.

The personal conviction I defend in my research paper is unashamedly pro-life. But unfortunately, recent events have compelled me to re-iterate a position that I have mentioned frequently in this blog, which is that politics and true Christianity cannot mix. In other words, it has been disheartening to witness the same politicians who pass strict abortion laws to protect unborn children do nothing to protect children from being murdered at school because they are so beholden to the gun lobby. As numerous blog posts on Red Letter Christians have pointed out over the years, an authentic pro-life conviction would oppose not just abortion but unrestricted access to guns, (especially assault rifles which were originally intended only for battlefield settings), racist policies which have subjected many people of color to contaminated air and water, even cuts to medicaid and other social welfare programs that millions of children depend on for food, shelter and healthcare. A few years ago, an adamantly pro-life relative raised the argument that we might get to heaven and lament to God that we never found a cure for cancer, and God might say, "I created the person who would have found the cure, but you aborted them." As hyperbolic and sensationalized as this argument is, it does have an element of truth. We will never know the potentially wonderful contributions aborted children might have brought to the world. But we will also never know what black children in Flint, Michigan could have achieved if their brains hadn't been damaged from lead poisoning, or what poor children across all races could have achieved if they had access to proper nutrition, healthcare, housing and quality education. And we will never know what the children of Columbine, Parkland, Sandy Hook (and so many other schools I cannot even remember them all), and now Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas, could have achieved if they had not been murdered by disturbed individuals with no business holding guns, but who all purchased their guns legally.

As I have mentioned before, my parents did not believe in any kind of censorship. I was allowed to read whatever I wanted--I even read The Da Vinci Code in eighth grade--and I was never sent out of the room when a television show was prefaced with "viewer discretion is advised." For the most part, I look back on this and recognize it as a beautiful privilege that I still thank my parents for, as I feel this exposure to the real world, and this intellectual freedom has made me more open-minded and prepared for the world than some of my sheltered, Christian peers. But I have light-heartedly told my parents that the one thing I might do differently is not let my children watch shows like America's Most Wanted. The host of that show John Walsh, made it his life mission to help law enforcement track down dangerous criminals after his six-year-old son was kidnapped and murdered. To that end, the show would recount the crimes of dangerous fugitives, sometimes in graphic detail, even reenactments, give viewers pictures of the suspect and information on where and when he was last seen, and invite them to call an anonymous tip line if they have any information that might help police. The reenactments of crimes, especially when the victims were children were disturbing. Sure, I couldn't see what was going on, but in college, I had a friend who said she found old-fashioned movies that didn't depict murder in graphic detail but left the details up to the imagination scarier and thus more entertaining than modern movies. I don't think I mentioned my experience watching America's Most Wanted, but perhaps a similar principle applies, the difference of course being that I wouldn't call my experience entertaining because the reenactments depicted real crimes. Most nights, I wasn't afraid to go to bed after this show which aired at 9:00 every Saturday night because the crimes were often domestic violence, or retribution for a bad drug deal, horrible situations of course, but situations my child mind didn't worry about because the monsters who committed these crimes would have no interest in coming for me. But every now and then, the show would feature criminals who kidnapped children or broke into people's homes and murdered them just for the thrill of it. Knowing that there were people capable of such senseless evil in the world was terrifying, especially when John Walsh said, "he could be anywhere tonight." Could he be in my closet? In the basement waiting for the family to go to sleep? My parents assured me that these crimes are extremely rare, and that coupled with the fact that our house is difficult to find even for bus drivers and repairmen given that we live i a somewhat secluded suburb, and the fact that a criminal would have a very difficult time kidnapping me since I was always holding onto the arm of a parent or older sibling when I left the house, all of whom were physically fit and would be able to protect me, meant I was usually able to put things into perspective and fall asleep quickly.

I was nine years old and in third grade when Columbine happened. I think my siblings were disturbed by it because instead of watching cartoons or Jeopardy as they usually did after school, I came in from the bus to hear the television tuned to the news. They must have heard about it at school, since two of my siblings were in high school, and my brother was in seventh grade and starting to think about high school. But I was able to cope by dismissing it as something that happens in the big scary high school. I didn't have to think about high school for five years. Almost all of my peers were naturally respectful and kind, and much of the curriculum at Burleigh was devoted to life skills, including treating one another with respect. There were a couple bullies in the before school daycare I had to attend two days a week who did not apply these lessons, but they were the garden variety kind that stole toys from me and excluded me from games. I never feared being a victim of violence, even from them. It never even crossed my mind that a gunman from the outside could enter an elementary school. In my mind, Burleigh Elementary School was a fortress, a warm, safe brick building surrounded by a tall fence and filled with vigilant staff who took safety very seriously. Once in first or second grade, I heard a story on the news about a crime committed on Burleigh Road, but my parents explained that Burleigh Road is a long road, and the location of the crime was nowhere near Burleigh Elementary School. We had monthly fire drills, with each teacher meticulously counting to make sure we all made it out of the building, and we had an annual tornado drill. One day due to unusually fierce wind a few months before Columbine, the assistant principal announced that recess would be indoors out of an abundance of caution due to power lines located relatively close to the playground. When I was in elementary school, the idea of an active shooter drill was not even a concept in my imagination. In my child mind, and even in my young adult mind, elementary schools were sacrosanct, even for serial killers, and in the infinitesimally unlikely event that a gunman did take interest in Burleigh Elementary School, they could never penetrate the fortress. This innocence and sense of safety was of course shattered by the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012. I couldn't find the words to blog about it then, but as I watched the news coverage of that horrific event, I found myself imagining myself as a first or second grader coming home from school, hearing of this event and being terrified to go back to school the following Monday because if such evil could take place at that elementary school, it could happen at Burleigh Elementary School. It was interesting listening to the advice of a child psychologist on how parents should respond if their elementary school-age children become aware of the Sandy Hook tragedy. The expert advised saying something to the effect of, "One very bad guy got into that elementary school, but police got him. You are safe." This may have placated me enough to return to Burleigh Elementary School the following Monday morning, but I still think my innocence, my impression of Burleigh Elementary School as a sacrosanct, impenetrable fortress would have been shattered. Looking back on my childhood from an adult perspective, I realize with a cold chill that as safety-conscious as the staff at Burleigh Elementary School was, I think they had the same sense of innocence and invincibility that I felt. The idea of a gunman barging into an elementary school was just as unimaginable to the adults.

On another occasion when I was in second grade--it might have been my oldest brother's Catholic confirmation--some members of the extended family gathered at our house and my big ears caught the adults in a conversation about guns. I don't remember the exact context, but as an adult, I think I can reasonably infer that the conversation must have been around perplexity as to why there was more gun violence even in 1998 than when they were growing up. Anyway, I remember Mom saying, "everyone owned guns where I grew up. My dad owns guns." This shocked me to the core. Papaw, my paternal grandpa who loved little children and looked forward to rocking me to sleep when I came to visit? Papaw who had more difficulty speaking because of Parkinsons but whom my mom said was always soft-spoken, whom she had never heard raise his voice? That Papaw owned guns? Given all of the stories of gun violence in the city that I picked up on the news, I thought only bad guys owned guns. I always felt completely safe at Granny and Papaw's house, but now I wasn't so sure. At the time, Mom consoled me by explaining that he never used them, except to go hunting occasionally. Furthermore, there was absolutely no chance that I would find them while playing and accidentally shoot myself or be shot by a cousin because he kept them so thoroughly hidden that she did not even know where they were. He also kept the bullets completely separate from the gun.

As I got older, I would learn that Papaw was a member of the NRA, but when Mom was growing up, the NRA was unrecognizable compared to what it is today. The NRA promoted the value of gun sports like hunting, but also took gun safety very seriously, even supporting gun regulation. It wasn't until the 1980s that conservatives re-interpreted the second amendment as granting the absolute right of almost anyone to own any type of gun, when the wording of the second amendment suggests that the Founders' intentions when drafting this amendment were far more narrow, only granting the right to keep and bear arms to the extent necessary for a "well regulated militia." Like most men of his World War II generation, Papaw did not register his guns because in every country the Nazis occupied, they gained control partly by obtaining gun registration records and then going door-to-door confiscating all registered guns. But although that generation fiercely defended their right to bear arms, gun safety was baked into the culture. In addition to following all gun safety procedures, especially keeping the bullets completely separate from the gun, my mom recalls that when they were playing, they would get in trouble if they pointed a toy gun, or even a stick that they were pretending to be a gun at someone. They could point toy guns in the air and pretend to shoot space aliens or imaginary bad guys, but never each other. This rule surprised me when Mom first mentioned it, but it makes sense. Habits, thoughts and attitudes start to form at an early age. Of course, even most children who point a toy gun at their friend won't grow up to kill with a real gun, and I am sure there are people who grew up with a strict culture of gun safety whose hearts turned to evil. I am not naive. I recognize that every generation of human history has been plagued by violence. But even if strict rules for children won't ultimately change the human heart, I can appreciate the value of engraining in children that guns are serious business. All this is to say that as I have been reflecting on yet another elementary school shooting, I am beginning to come to the conclusion that guns in and of themselves are not the problem. The problem is a culture that glorifies violence, raises boys to feel ashamed if they express any emotion other than anger resulting in a lack of empathy which commonly leads to violence, and idolizes guns to the point that too many people treat real guns like toys.

Charleton Heston's famous quote does have a grain of truth to it. "Guns don't kill people. People kill people." But because of our culture which has led to a nation with more guns than people, we do need to pass sensible gun control legislation because right now, guns are too accessible for people who want to kill other people, or themselves. (While this post, and the news cycle focuses on mass shootings, we should not overlook the fact that most gun deaths are suicides. According to a very compelling episode of The Bulwark I listened to recently which featured a former NRA lobbyist turned whistleblower, suicide is an impulsive decision, so experts believe many people who commit suicide with a gun may not have done so if guns were not so readily available.) I am sure Papaw would have supported a ban on assault weapons, weapons originally intended for the battlefield setting, red flag laws, background checks and a waiting period before someone can purchase a gun. Another reform I think would be valuable which gets less media attention is a requirement that all gun owners must complete an in-person gun safety course, pass a test and obtain a license. The license could be permanently revoked if it can be proven that the license holder knowingly gave a gun to someone who did not have a license and the gun was used in a crime, or that the license holder did not follow proper protocol securely storing a gun that was then stolen and used in a crime. If such a law were implemented, I recognize that it could seem inconvenient and unnecessary for people like Papaw who grew up in rural Kentucky, and learned from responsible relatives how to handle guns safely from a young age, as guns were necessary to hunt and protect livestock from predators. But as gentle and compassionate as Papaw was, he would have been heartbroken by today's gun violence epidemic, especially the elementary school shootings, so I think he would have considered the inconvenience a small price to pay. After all, you have to go through training, pass a test and get a license to drive a motorized vehicle, which can become a deadly weapon if operated negligently. I don't think it is at all unreasonable to implement similar requirements to own a product specifically designed to be a deadly weapon. I can understand how mandatory gun buy-back would feel threatening, even to responsible gun owners, but I think more voluntary gun buy-back initiatives (maybe with a bonus incentive for every assault rifle turned in) could potentially avert tragedy by encouraging relatives of people at risk of harming themselves or others to dispose of their guns, potentially averting many tragedies by getting at least a few guns off the streets. I personally am inspired by the work of organizations like Presbyterian Peace Fellowship who take literally the words of Isaiah 2:4 where it is prophesied that in the last days, people will "beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks" by melting down guns that people surrender and turning them into garden tools.

Laws are important in our fallen world to maintain order, and in fact, Christians have a duty to submit to all laws that do not conflict with God's laws because "the authorities that exist are established by God" (Romans 13:1). The passage and subsequent enforcement of laws are a necessary first step in restraining our violent human nature. Death by any weapon would be equally tragic for the families affected, but if we could at least ban assault weapons and get as many of them as possible off the streets via buy-back programs, forcing a potential shooter to go with a less "efficient" weapon, the death toll would not be as horrific by the time law enforcement arrived, and for survivors, the wounds would not be as grievous. But as I have discussed before, laws alone cannot change the world. Neither, by the way, would equipping more "good guys with guns." In his book "The Spirit of the Disciplines" which I read in my spiritual formation class last year, Dallas Willard has an excellent chapter on the disciplines and power structures of this world. He opens this chapter with a quote from Leo Tolstoy which I believe is very appropriate for our time. According to Tolstoy, "men are so accustomed to establish and defend their existence by violence, by bayonets, bullets, prisons, and gallows, that it seems to them as if such an arrangement of life were not only normal, but were the only one possible. Yet it is just this arrangement and maintenance of the commonwealth by violence, that does most to hinder people from comprehending the causes of their sufferings, and consequently from being able to establish a true order." In other words, I think if Tolstoy were alive today to weigh in on our gun violence problem, he would view ideas like arming teachers as well-intentioned perhaps, but woefully misguided and unimaginative. Rather than succumbing to hopelessness, implicitly accepting bad guys with guns as an inevitable reality that can only be mitigated by more violence from good guys with guns, Christians ought instead to be at the forefront of solutions that address the root causes of violence. For example, it almost always comes to light that the young men who commit school shootings were bullied or felt marginalized as children. Perhaps some of the time spent preparing for standardized tests could instead be devoted to discussing the importance of values like empathy, kindness, inclusion, accepting everyone as they are. Perhaps there could be classes or camps specifically for boys to reimagine masculinity, allow and encourage boys to express a full range of emotions and learn constructive ways to manage negative emotions before they fester and lead to violent outbursts of anger. Of course, such solutions would not eliminate violence completely. Sociopaths prove that empathy cannot be taught, and I am not so naive as to think we can eradicate evil in this world with empathy lessons when Jesus said that wickedness will persist until the end of the age (Matthew 24:6-13). But I believe such measures could reduce the prevalence of gun violence. But more important than the statistics, such measures could potentially rescue men who could have easily gone down a path of violence and show them a better way. This would go much further toward a vision of true peace that all Christians should long for than succumbing to a superficial peace that relies on good guys with guns.

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Well readers, as usual, the semester kept me so busy that I wasn't able to write here. But overall, it was a successful semester. This past Monday was my first full day of summer vacation! My Systematic Theology professor gave us until this upcoming Saturday to submit the final research paper, but I was so close to having it finished this past Saturday that I decided to stay up until 1am Sunday morning to just finish it! The reason it took me so long is that the paper required footnotes, and unfortunately the BrailleNote uses a simplified version of Microsoft Word that does not delineate pages or have a feature to insert footnotes, so I have to use the iPad where it is harder to "see" what I am doing. Only after I meticulously typed all 28 footnotes, it occurred to me that the paper was only 8 pages. Given that my essay came to 3,300 words, it seemed like it should have been at least 10 pages. The paper was required to be between 10 and 12 pages. Sure enough when I checked my BrailleNote, I found that for some reason, many paragraphs were not double-spaced, even though I thought the default setting of the document was double-spaced. I corrected the paragraphs, but then realized I would have to re-type the footnotes. Otherwise the paper would look sloppy as the footnotes wouldn't match up at all to the pages. I had worked so hard, and was so proud of this paper that I knew my conscience would bother me if I knowingly turned in a sloppy-looking paper, and as I have been told in other contexts, like it or not, it is a visual world, and no matter how intelligent and accomplished you are otherwise, a sloppy visual presentation (such as leaving the house having made no effort to comb your hair) is the only thing people will notice. I didn't want my paper to be the equivalent of that, with a sloppy appearance distracting the professor from the message. But I persevered, and when all was said and done, the paper came to 12 pages.

I actually plan to share this research paper in my next post because for me, the research paper wasn't just an assignment to complete, but something that became personal for me and kind of wrote itself. The topic I chose for the paper was the biblical perspective of human dignity. Just as I was starting to do my research for this paper, the leak of the Supreme Court draft opinion signalling the possible overturn of Roe v. Wade brought the abortion debate to the forefront of the news cycle again, and then I came across a shocking article about how ever since 2004 when Denmark started offering universal prenatal screening for Down syndrome, 95 percent of women that receive a positive test result terminate the pregnancy. These events combined to inspire me. After submitting the paper, it occurred to me that I might receive a lower grade for not exploring the topic in broader terms, as the textbook reading related to biblical anthropology discussed human dignity regarding all races, even unmarried people who often feel excluded by churches whose ministry priorities unwittingly perpetuate a one-size-fits-all Christian life where the assumed norm is to get married and start a family. My paper focused on abortion and physician-assisted suicide--I found some disturbing information on that subject too--and argued that the Bible commands respect at the very beginning, and the end of human life. But the wonderful thing about seminary school professors, at least at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School is that while professors set high academic expectations, they also encourage an integrated mindset. In other words, they encourage students not to compartmentalize their lives by turning off their brains during worship and personal devotional time, or by being so academically oriented that they fill their minds with knowledge but loose all sense of personal reverence. In fact, God gave us brains precisely because he intended for us to use them, so ideally, our academic studies should themselves be thought of as worship. Given this culture, I have been shown grace on other assignments when the professor could tell the subject was personal for me, even if it strayed slightly from the parameters of the assignment. Regardless of my grade, I plan to share this essay, but I thought I would wait until I received the grade and read the professor's feedback--this particular professor provides wonderful, detailed feedback--as this theology course has really been akin to an intense workout for my brain, forcing me to think in ways I have never thought before, and when it comes to issues as serious as abortion and physician-assisted suicide, I want to make sure my thinking is on the right track before sharing it with you readers.

Last semester, I took a Biblical Theology course. Although preparing for the test was brutal, requiring a lot of memorization, not so much of specific Bible verses but the chronology of the Bible as a whole so that I could trace various themes from their first appearance in the Old Testament through their full revelation in the New Testament, I did really well in this course because it was pretty straight-forward. Though some of the reading involved learning about the history of biblical interpretation and how it evolved, most of the time, the only book we interacted with was the Bible itself because the primary purpose of the course was just appreciating how various themes unfold as the Bible progresses. But Systematic Theology involves a lot more interaction with outside authorities. When in doubt, the final authority is still the Bible, but the Bible is actually analogous to the U.S. Constitution. As one of my Paralegal professors pointed out in 2014, the U.S. Constitution is a relatively short document, and yet thousands of volumes have been written questioning how to interpret it. This is partly because the U.S. Constitution was written 240 years ago in a different cultural context, and as such, the Constitution could not possibly foresee every situation that would arise in real life. This is true to an even greater extent for the Bible which was written thousands of years ago over the course of multiple cultural contexts: the Old Testament was written in the ancient Near East and the New Testament was written during the Roman empire. Thus the methodology behind Systematic Theology involves not merely reading the Bible, but weighing evidence from Scripture, and studying the insights of well-respected theologians including but not limited to Augustine and Aquinas (first few centuries after Christ) Luther and Calvin (middle ages) Karl Barth and Rudolf Bultmann (modern theologians). For example, as a preview to my research paper, one argument I address is that the Bible does not conclusively state that God considers a fetus to be a person, but passages such as Exodus 21:22-25 or Hebrews 7:9-10 have led theologians to advocate a conservative course of action given how seriously God condemns murder.

I am so glad that I took this course, as it has enriched my own faith, and given me tools to engage more thoughtfully with people who don't understand/believe in concepts like the Trinity or predestination. But I am also glad I waited until my second year of seminary school when my brain had recovered from the atrophy caused by working a corporate job and reading nothing but magazine articles with simple sentences for five years. As it was, I still couldn't fully wrap my mind around some of the abstract concepts covered in this course, as the feedback on my first two research papers can attest. But although this class made my head hurt, it was a good kind of pain, and in fact, even though I technically have earned all the required credits for my certificate in Christian studies, I am taking the sequel to this course in the Fall.

In addition to Systematic Theology, I also took a course on American Church History. Unfortunately, as a practical matter, history isn't the most blind-friendly field to go into, as most primary sources composed before the computer age are preserved as scanned images which proved super-annoying to read as my KNFB reader app could not correctly recognize many letters. (I found out during one Zoom session that this wasn't the result of an inferior app, but was because the images were grainy even for my sighted classmates.) On a few occasions, I was able to find more readable versions of these documents online, or on Bookshare, but oftentimes, I couldn't and so would have to go through the document once to correct as many words as I could, and then read it again to actually absorb the content. But my persistence paid off and I learned a lot.

In future posts, I look forward to sharing some specific tidbits of insight I gained about this course relevant to current events. But for now as an overview, I will say that I vividly remember a day in fifth grade when I was frustrated and did not feel like doing my Social Studies homework. That day I asked my sister, a junior in high school at the time why I had to study history. My sister replied with the commonly asserted maxim that "those who fail to study history are condemned to repeat it." Fortunately by the time I reached high school, I had matured and actually found U.S. history very interesting, but I still didn't quite understand this maxim. I couldn't help noticing irony in the fact that as I studied the catastrophic failure of the Vietnam war, our country was mired in Iraq and Afghanistan. When I got to college and took another history course my freshman year, irony occurred to me once again as we studied the corporate greed that led to the Great Depression just as in real time, the country was entering into the Great Recession. Though ignorance about history is certainly a factor in some cases (as in certain celebrities who choose to enter Politics), John Fea points out in the introduction of his book "Was America Founded as a Christian Nation?" that history is complex, and the way every historic event unfolds is influenced by prior historic events. So although in some ways the war in Vietnam feels similar to the war in Iraq, the responsible historian recognizes the complexity of the past and tries to be impartial. But I personally have come to believe through this course, but also in reflecting on my previous study of the history of ancient Israel, the Roman empire, and Christian missionary outreach that history is cyclical, not in the pagan sense of an infinite cycle that ultimately has no meaning, but in the sense that in our fallen state, we seldom seem to learn from our mistakes, and usually let personal or national self-interest take precedence over doing what is right. Fortunately, God is well-aware of this shortcoming in our nature, and therefore will one day break the cycle, bring an end to human history as it currently is and redeem all of creation. But if I ever had the opportunity to mentor a younger student who questions the necessity of studying history, I would explain that when we study history, we have a much better sense of our identity and the factors that shaped it long before we were even a thought. And while much of the power to control the course of history is out of our control, as we are only a drop in the ocean of the billions of people in this world, and most of us will never be in positions of power that shape history, an understanding of the past positions us better to be on the right side of history as we go about our ordinary lives. For example, if we are familiar with our country's dark history of racism, we are better able to recognize how as Jemar Tisby states, racism has not gone away. It has just adapted. This positions us better to recognize racism when political candidates campaign on the promise of restoring "law and order" or when a local suburban skating rink decides to ban kids from Milwaukee. A white alderman from Milwaukee confirmed and exposed the coded racism behind this policy when he brought his child to the rink and had no trouble getting in. So I suppose this maxim really is accurate in the sense that if we understand the dark parts of our history, we really can play a small, but significant (especially to God) part in ensuring it is not repeated.

In a future post, I will share some other things that have been going on in my life besides school work. But I don't want to ruin the academic vibe of this post by launching into other topics. So for now I will close by saying that although I feel a little fried and am glad to be on summer break, and although sometimes I have anxiety about my future financial security, I cannot tell you how blessed I feel that I am able to study and reflect on these academic subjects when so many people (many far smarter than me) have life circumstances that do not facilitate this privilege. Most days, I also still have this wonderful, God-given sense that resigning from my paralegal job at the start of the pandemic and taking seminary courses is what God wanted me to do. I have no idea what my future holds beyond Fall 2022, and I will be honest and say I hate uncertainty. Just as I hate going to new restaurants if I don't know exactly what I will order well in advance, sometimes it drives me crazy that I don't have a life plan either. But perhaps in regard to both scenarios, God is testing me, asking me to be patient and have trust that all will work out according to his plan, and for my good.

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I think I heard The River, sung by Garth Brooks for the first time when I was in sixth grade. I always appreciated it for the beautiful sentiment that it is, and would stop whatever I was doing when it came on the radio to soak it in. But now as an adult, I have a much deeper, firsthand understanding of how true the sentiment of this song really is.

Some people have concrete, well-defined dreams, like the toddler who is a tennis prodigy, but I think most of us don't have such clearly defined dreams. Our abstract dream is simply to find a fulfilling life with financial security to meet our practical needs, and a meaningful career that meets our spiritual need for a sense of purpose. We may study an area of interest in college, but after that, we are left to the mercy of an ever-changing river influenced by currents of economic conditions, chance encounters or unexpected circumstances which inspire us, and sometimes force us, to pursue a path we never imagined. We make mistakes and try to learn from them. We let opportunities slip away. There is so much we have no control over, so we are really all vessels that must ride the current of life wherever it takes us. Rough waters are inevitable, but with the good lord as our captain, we can handle whatever comes our way.

I feel compelled to reflect on the river currents that have shaped my life now because at the time I am writing this (August 2021), I have pretty much been in quarantine for a year and a half. It is the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic, an international crisis that has permanently altered the course of many people's rivers in ways never imagined when 2020 began. I am one of these people. I don't want to minimize the hardship this pandemic has caused. At the time I am writing this, over 600,000 families are grieving the loss of loved ones to COVID-19. Small business owners who put their hearts and souls into their businesses, had to close at a moment's notice, and many will not have the means to come back. For over 400 years, Black Americans have had to endure adversity far greater than anything I have experienced as a blind person, adversity which this pandemic has exacerbated. But in my case, the pandemic is the current that inspired me to pursue an exciting new course, one which God had been whispering to me about for a long time, but one which I might never have been brave enough to pursue if not for the pandemic.

In this collection of essays in the pages that follow, I will share the story of my life's river so far. In Part 1, I will focus on how I navigated childhood and school as a blind person. In Part 2, I will focus on my faith journey. These two rivers of academic life and religious life were somewhat separate out of necessity, but are merging more and more as I progress through young adulthood. I have not always recognized that the good lord was trying to be my captain, and when I did recognize it, I wasn't willing to give up control of my vessel at first. But now, I feel a wonderful sense of joy, hope and renewed purpose in my life. I recognize that even in this exciting new course, rough waters may come, and I recognize that in this ever-changing tumultuous world, the river's course could change again. I suppose the only way to fully understand the river of one's life is for a writer to wait until the end of his/her life to write a memoir like this. But I believe the adage is true that it is not the destination, but the journey that counts. I hope readers will find inspiration in reading about my journey so far, and that perhaps, it could change the course of someone else's river for the better.

May 13, 2012 is as perfect as a day can possibly be, the kind of day that when you step outside for the first time to let the dog out or get the newspaper, you sigh an "Ah!" of contentment. Instead of rushing back in to the house to cook your breakfast or start checking items off your to-do list for that day, you decide there's time to stand there for a minute and just breathe deeply, letting the special freshness of the air unique to Spring permeate your lungs and regenerate your soul. Most of the bugs either have not woken from their winter slumber, or are too busy to think about getting right in your ear and startling you out of your reverie, so you can stand in total peace and serenity, just letting the warmth of the sun envelope you and the gentle breeze caress your face, and listen to nature's amazing orchestra of birds and the sweet chime of distant church bells. There are church bells because May 13 is also a Sunday, which only accentuates the already beautiful day, as Sunday for our family is a day of church, family time and rest to celebrate a week of hard work. But this Sunday, the peace in my soul is due to more than the sabbath or the beauty of Spring, because this is the day my family and I celebrate not merely days of hard work, but years. It was commencement day at Carroll University.

"You ready to go?" whispers a student volunteer, tapping my shoulder.

When I used to daydream occasionally about what this moment would be like as a child, I imagined myself jumping out of my chair and running up to the stage, barely able to contain my joy. My child mind couldn't imagine a greater joy than conquering college which grownups told me was "very hard" and then never having to go to school again if I chose. In reality, mixed in with the joy in ways I never expected is a sentimental feeling that compels me to savor the moment as an adult rather than rush for the prize like a child. Solemn and dignified, I stand up, adjust my dress and gown that sweat has caused to cling to my skin. Gilbert, my sweet guide dog, a yellow lab who will forever retain the innocence and exuberance of a child, follows suit as I used to imagine I would, jumping up, wagging his tail and wanting to run ahead. He is also wearing a cap and gown, courtesy of the bookstore staff who absolutely adored Gilbert! The bookstore received free samples of gowns from a vendor that were inappropriately short for a dignified graduation ceremony at a Christian university, but with just a little altering by the staff, one of these gowns ended up being a perfect fit for Gilbert. I grab Gilbert's leash in my left hand, adjust his mortar board which has slipped sideways on his head and find the elbow of the student volunteer with my right hand.

In most previous special milestones that involved walking down an aisle from first communion to high school graduation, I wanted and was encouraged by my teachers to walk up to the stage by myself to show I was just as capable as everyone else. But in my high school graduation, despite practicing the route with my long white cane several times after rehearsal three days earlier, there was an unplanned obstacle in the way that day that I wasn't sure how to get around. In an uncharacteristic moment, Mrs. Hobson, the aid I had worked with for almost eight years and the most fierce advocate for my independence, ran onstage with tears in her eyes and guided me around the obstacle, so the awkward moment didn't last long. But for this celebration, the culmination of the first leg of life's journey, I wanted absolutely no unpleasant surprises, no awkward moments to tarnish this perfect day.

The volunteer and I take our place in the alphabetical procession and as we inch our way toward the symbolic moment of transition from the first leg of life's journey to the next, I find myself thinking back to freshmen orientation.

"In four years, you will walk across the stage in commencement," said a faculty member to us nervous freshmen seated on rows of plastic chairs set up in the airy, carpeted ballroom on the second floor of the student union where I would return for a career fair, a banquet and many convocation events in the next four years. "Commencement seems like a long way off now, but trust me. These four years will go fast," she continued, "so I urge you to make the most of them. Get involved on campus, take advantage of the academic opportunities we offer, study abroad. The memories you make and the connections you forge here will shape the rest of your life."

"They are talking about college graduation already?" I remember thinking with a laugh to myself. I hadn't even been on campus for 24 hours and already I was almost woozy with the exhaustion and stress of adjusting to the culture shock of college, and caring for myself and a new guide dog in an unfamiliar place, and the real work, the school part, hadn't even started. "At this rate, if I survive to walk across the stage at Commencement, it will be a miracle," I had thought.

"Here's the rail," the volunteer whispers, placing my hand on the metal rail for the stairs that lead up to the stage. For a brief moment I stand frozen.

"Go up," she whispers nudging me again. With that, my thoughts snap back to reality as it hits me that there is no line ahead of me. How did that procession happen so fast? Then again, how does college, how does life, happen so fast? The handle of Gilbert's harness clicks as I lift it and tell him "forward" and we walk slow and dignified up the narrow stairs. The instant my feet hit the stage, "Allison Michelle Nastoff, magna cum laude!" echoes triumphantly through microphones all over the lawn outside Main Hall where four years of memories and a lifetime of love and support are assembled. Is it just me, or does the professor reading the names, a biology professor whom I met when an American Politics class I was in collaborated with one of his classes for a video project my sophomore year, pronounce my name more slowly, more deliberately than the others? Then it occurs to me that perhaps all the graduates are thinking the same thing about the reading of their own names. The challenges I overcame to get to this stage may be more obvious to observers, but everyone graduating with me overcame challenges to get here, even if those challenges amounted to nothing more than the universal college predicaments that do not discriminate, like having to stay up all night finishing a project that was more involved than anticipated.

Some of you reading this are likely thinking, "but the usual challenges of college pale in comparison to getting through college without sight. I could never do that!" In fact, you could fill in this refrain with every stage of my life because all my life I have heard this sentiment from well-meaning people who cannot imagine living without sight. To them and by extension to you if you are one of them, I hope that if you take away one thing from my story, it will be an awareness of the fact that you only have access to and therefore can only fully understand life from your own perspective. So if you have never lived with a disability, it is difficult to imagine how you would cope with it. In fact, I shouldn't be preaching because I have felt the same sentiments toward people with other disabilities I am not familiar with. But in terms of the disability I am familiar with, I can say that while the obstacles this disability presented may seem unimaginable to you, for me, someone who has lived with this disability for as long as I can remember, they weren't perceived as obstacles at all, just a normal part of life. The dictionary defines normal as "conforming to a standard; usual, typical or expected" and believe it or not as "(of a person) free from physical or mental disorders." Society likes words and people to fit in to neat definitions, but this definition should be scrapped in my opinion because I have a physical disorder and yet I feel normal. There is no neat definition for normal. It means something different to everyone, depending on the perspective of life you were dealt. With that being said, I hope that none of my peers in my graduating class minimized the challenges they overcame upon seeing Gilbert and me step on to that stage. Disability or not, everyone's normal presents them with challenges. The reading of my name sounds slow and deliberate because as my mind flashes back to the challenges I overcame to earn this moment, my mind yearns to savor it, but I hope everyone else savored their own moments too because everyone earned them.

After my name is read, a large-sounding contingent of people greet it with joyous but dignified applause. My face is bursting at the seams with a smile as I am handed the smooth leather diploma cover, a beautiful keepsake and tangible reminder of this joyous milestone.

"We would also like to acknowledge Gilbert," the crowd explodes with cheering and thunderous applause that almost drowns out "who attended every course required for graduation." Then the President of the college hands me Gilbert's diploma, a giant bone. He wags his tail and tries to get to it first, as he knows it's for him. I know of blind people who requested that their dog not be honored like this in their commencement ceremonies, and perhaps it is contradictory to my lifelong efforts not to draw attention to myself, to show everyone that I am normal. But Gilbert was so beloved by everyone, and such a blessing to me, especially in the early difficult days of college when he served as a therapy dog, goodwill ambassador and guide dog, that I couldn't resist the offer. Maybe he didn't do the same level of work I had to do to graduate college, but that didn't mean his work was any less important in my eyes, and he did attend every course required for graduation. So what if he slept through most of them!

After posing for a professional photo before exiting the stage, the student volunteer directs me back to my seat.

As a child, I was always baffled by the phenomenon of how the eager anticipation of a special event like Christmas, a birthday or choir performance builds up in your mind for the longest time, but then is over in an instant. This phenomenon used to make me sad when I lay my head down on my pillow after these special days, perhaps with the feeling that I was so wrapped up in the build up that when the moment actually happened, I didn't savor it as completely as I would have liked to. But this isn't the case as I return to my seat today, my moment of recognition having passed. Perhaps it is because I have become more introspective since my childhood and took care to make sure I savored my moment. But beyond that, I think with maturity, I understand more completely what adults always said in speeches given at every milestone. Graduation may signify the end of one chapter, but it also signifies the beginning of a new one. Maybe I shrugged these statements off because at every previous milestone, as nervous as I was about starting a new chapter in a new school, it was only that, a new school. The chapter was already written. But today, with my formal education complete, it occurs to me that with the end of this chapter, the pages are blank. There will be no school next year and I don't even have any job prospects lined up. The rest of the book is mine to write now, and the possibilities are endless. Any lingering melancholy about the end of this chapter is overshadowed by the eager anticipation of chapters to come.

As I listen to the remaining names being read, I recall a conversation my parents and I had just a few weeks earlier around the dinner table.

"I have no idea what I am going to do after graduation," I had said nervously, "maybe I should have applied for grad school or jobs this semester, but I don't know what I would study and none of the few job postings I have seen in my field interest me. All I know is that I want to try my hand at living independently soon, support myself financially and be a contributing member of society."

"You know, people like to view life as a neat linear continuum where you move from one thing to the next. But from my experience, I have found that life is really more like a river," Mom said, "sometimes you're just happily floating along. Sometimes a current takes you somewhere you never expected, and sometimes you hit sandbars. But if you just take one day at a time and let life unfold, everything works out the way it is supposed to."

I think I kind of brushed off this analogy that day because I wasn't in a philosophical mood, but I am in a reflective philosophical mood today and as I sing Carroll University's theme song loud and proud with my class to conclude the ceremony, I fully appreciate what a perfect analogy the river is to life.

Every time I have graduated from one school and transitioned to another, I felt as if my life jacket, made of dedicated, wonderful teachers and a building I had come to know well was being stripped from me and I would have to swim on my own. The waters would be rough in the beginning of the transition, but before long, I was comfortable in a new life jacket of new dedicated teachers and a building that felt like home. After my high school graduation, I feared that the college waters would be roughest of all, as my life jacket was even stripped of the peers I had grown up with, and the support of two aids, Mrs. Hobson and Mrs. Reich who had stayed with me all through school. But now I realize that even in college when I thought I would really need to swim on my own, the foundation of my life jacket, the unwavering love and support of my family stayed firmly in place.

The waters of college were choppy at first too. On my first day of class, Mom said she would come and meet me outside the campus center after breakfast just to make sure I got to class smoothly the first day. Over many hours of practice with the guide dog trainer, which I chronicle in my 2014 book Paws that Changed my Life, I felt confident about the route, but appreciated the peace of mind of having Mom follow behind me at a distance in case I ran into trouble so that my first day started out on a positive note. It turned out to be a good thing she was there because as soon as we crossed the street from the campus center, Gilbert and I were greeted by jackhammers and a torn up sidewalk! No one had thought to tell us that construction would block our route the first day of school. We had not trained in noisy construction situations, so Gilbert and I were both caught off guard. I ended up having to drop the harness handle and take Mom's arm so she could guide us around the construction, and every day that first week, she would have to meet us before and after class to get us to the dorm and back. She also ended up having to come to my dorm room and read my textbook chapters to me for awhile because they were not available electronically at that time, and Disability Services did not have the print books scanned and ready on time for the start of the semester. Given these circumstances, and the fact that getting myself and Gilbert ready in time for an 8am class in the dorm setting was proving to be stressful, my parents and I came to the decision that it would be easier for me to live at home and commute to college. Since the dorm room was non-refundable, I kept it my freshman year as a place to rest between classes or do research since my computer equipped with a screen reader was set up there. But at Christmas time, we brought my computer home, and although I maybe could have tried again the following year, given how expensive a dorm room is, and given that we had settled into such a smooth routine commuting to school, we decided it made more sense to commute permanently. Carroll University was only half an hour from home, and a few of my friends were commuter students as well. But being a commuter student made it much more inconvenient to fully participate in the social life of college. Sometimes, thinking about this still makes me a little sad. But overall, I still had a wonderful college experience. I made a few really good friends whom I met with regularly for lunch, and the bugs were eventually ironed out with Disability Services. Before long, I was thriving in the waters of college, which felt like home now. Every diploma I have held in my life, but especially the one I hold today, and even Gilbert's very presence, proves that everything really does work out the way it is supposed to.

Mrs. Reich, who was my Orientation and Mobility instructor from kindergarten all the way through high school, thought a guide dog would make crossing streets safer for me because I had a tendency to veer when I walked. A guide dog would keep me walking straight so I wouldn't veer into traffic. But given complex underlying medical conditions, and the fact that I have always struggled with directional bearing--my parents say this is genetic--Mrs. Reich did not like the idea of me going to a residential guide dog program where I would have to live independently for a month, and then basically have to start my training all over again when I returned home because I would have a very difficult time applying what I learned on the streets of New Jersey or California, to the streets of Wisconsin. But for most of my childhood, these residential programs were the only option for getting a guide dog. But it just so happened that as I was entering high school, one of Mrs. Reich's friends started loosing her sight to a genetic eye condition. She loved dogs and yearned for the independence a guide dog could give her as she adjusted to this progressive condition, but she had small children at the time and did not want to leave them and go to a residential program for a month. It occurred to her that there were likely many blind people in similar situations, unable to abandon family or career responsibilities to train for a month at a residential program, or people with other conditions that would make living at a residential facility difficult. So in 2005, she founded Occupaws Guide Dog Association, which would serve Wisconsin residents--now Occupaws will also serve people in border states--by completing guide dog training in the client's home environment. Gilbert and I were the second team to be trained by Occupaws, the first being the founder herself. At the time, my faith wasn't what it is today, and I called it luck, perfect timing. But the older I get, the more I believe there really are no coincidences.

So as I process out with my class to the joyous beat of bagpipes and drums, instead of succumbing to anxiety over the uncertain waters ahead where my life jacket is stripped even of the certainty of a new school routine, I decide to let myself be at total peace, trusting that wherever the river of life takes me next, I will find a comfortable new life jacket and navigate the waters with the confidence and grace of a sailor who has successfully conquered rough waters all her life.

(This essay is chapter 1 of a book I self-published last summer but I wanted to make the essays available online for those who prefer digital content. To read the rest of the book, please become a subscriber. Thanks!)

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theriversoflife.substack.com

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Hello readers and listeners,

My name is Allison Nastoff, and I want to personally welcome you and thank you for reading and/or listening to my writing. In my substack newsletter and podcast, I will be publishing essays I have written over the years, and continue to write today about my life as a blind woman, as well as my Christian faith and how it shapes my perspective regarding current events.

Most of the essays will be free, as they have been previously published on my wordpress website, gilbertandme.com. For those who don't know, Gilbert was my first guide dog who was given to me when I started college in 2008, and had to be put to sleep on December 2, 2020. I was sad to lose him, but he lived to be 14, a long happy life. Someday, I hope to have another guide dog, but ever since resigning from my paralegal job at the start of the pandemic, my daily routine does not get me out of the house often enough to have a service dog. I live with my parents in a suburb with no sidewalks, and take graduate-level seminary courses online. But eventually, I hope to have a job outside the house--possibly as a chaplain--and my parents would like to move to a house with a smaller yard to manage, in a community with sidewalks which will be convenient for me as a blind person, and them as they age.

For just $5 a month or $50 for a year, you can access some more polished essays that were originally published in The Rivers of My Life, a memoir I self-published last summer. I also plan to add more personal essays, including several that were workshopped in some online courses I took through the Creative Nonfiction Foundation. Asking for money takes me a bit out of my comfort zone, but if you could support me, I would be so appreciative.

Most of my articles will be read by an artificial voice. I had noble intentions of recording everything myself, and I will be the first to agree that human voices are so much more enjoyable to listen to. But I quickly discovered that recording yourself reading is harder than you might think. I could not get through chapter 1 of The Rivers of my Life without tripping over my words. So I think you will actually enjoy my articles more with a synthetic voice. I tried to pick one that was as expressive and pleasant as a synthetic voice can be. Occasionally though, I will read essays myself, especially a couple which are especially personal for me, or which quote the words to songs that a synthetic voice could not read properly.

Thanks again for listening and reading my thoughts, and feel free to comment with questions or feedback.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theriversoflife.substack.com