Category: Uncategorized

“Oppenheimer”

Our first home was Melbourne, Florida. It was sleepy little area on the east coast of the state. But it was a stone’s throw away from the Kennedy Space Center. In fact, it was the early space program that had brought my wife’s family to the area.

While we still lived there, we discovered East Tennessee. Early in our child-raising days, we made the decision that the Appalachians was where we would spend our later years.

After considerably hunting, we selected the town of Oak Ridge, Tennessee.

Before we arrived in Oak Ridge, I had a nodding familiarity with the town. I knew it had been one of the multiple sites the U.S. government had used during World War II to develop the first atomic bomb in what was called the Manhattan Project.

Once I arrived in town, I immersed myself in local history organizations and in local discussion groups. And what I felt was disturbing.

From the library to the museums to the schools, there was at least a subliminal – often rising to overt – sense of shame about the town’s role in developing the world’s first atomic weapon that had literally ended the most destructive war in human history.

Of course, I’d understood the origin of this self-righteous guilt was buried among the scientists of the Manhattan Project itself.

Leo Szilard, Oppenheimer’s senior partner, was paradoxically the man who, along with Albert Einstein, wrote the famous letter to President Franklin Roosevelt that ultimately initiated the Manhattan Project . . . AND Szilard also organized and submitted a petition to the U. S. government – signed by 70 Manhattan Project scientists (almost ALL of whom were working out of Oak Ridge) – recommending restrained use or even NOT using the atomic bomb on Japan to end the war.

As I learned more of the historic and embedded nature of Oak Ridge’s self-righteously arrogant collective guilt, I came to recognize its inherent connection to communism. While the enemies that caused the Manhattan Project’s initiation were fascists, it was communists living in the free Western world who were called upon to do the work.

It was Oppenheimer’s familiarity and apparent comfort with these “fellow travellers” that proved to be his undoing.

In the film, director and screenwriter Christopher Nolan portrays Oppenheimer’s eventual blackballing as a martyrdom orchestrated by Admiral Lewis Strauss (not coincidentally, a lifelong Republican), rather than the fully justifiable result of Oppenheimer’s own naivete / hubris / arrogance / blindness / social ineptitude. Choose all that apply.

Nolan is blatantly political in the painting of his characters. He portrays Ernest Lawrence (inaccurately) as an ideological opponent of Oppenheimer. While Lawrence did assist the Eisenhower administration in later nuclear research and negotiations, he largely opposed Cold War nuclear development and publicly stated such on more than one occasion.

A more puerile issue that has developed around “Oppenheimer” is the sex scenes.

Like many of the facets of the Manhattan Project under Oppenheimer’s sphere of responsibility, it was no secret that the man himself was a womanizer who engaged in multiple sexual affairs before and during his marriage. The more prolonged of these affairs was with a woman named Jeanne Tatlock, a psychiatrist and communist exceptionally portrayed by Florence Pugh.

Because the sex scenes were adequately telegraphed in the film – and because I was seated between two women whom I did not know, nor do I believe knew one another – I afforded myself permission to avert my attention (judging from the audible responses, the rest of the theater did not share my qualms).

Because I did not see them, I cannot comment on the sex scenes beyond saying that their inclusion and immediate impact to the story appeared relevant to assessing Oppenheimer’s character.

Christopher Nolan is a very technically talented filmmaker. He is also, like most entertainment industry power brokers, an idealogue. His use (misuse?) of this film to further a pro-leftist, anti-conservative narrative comes as no surprise to me . . . nor should it surprise anyone who pays even nodding attention to such things.

There are multiple magnificent acting performances in “Oppenheimer,” not the least of which is Cillian Murphy as the title character. Capturing the great physicist’s arrogance and self-loathing would have been a challenge for any actor. Murphy provides his character with the combination of these things that makes the man seem more of a natural occurrence than he was. The result is that, whether we like him or not, we see J. Robert Oppenheimer as a human being.

Emily Blunt, utilizing Nolan’s script, makes Kitty Oppenheimer admirably gruff – only half of which was true of her in life. And Robert Downey, Jr., again within the bounds of the director’s screenplay, gloriously paints Strauss as the repulsive political animal Nolan desires.

The most accurate and heroic character in the film is portrayed by Matt Damon.

His Gen. Leslie Groves is brilliant, occasionally emotional and unwaveringly committed to the Manhattan Project . . . exactly as the man was in life. Since I have moved to East Tennessee (and even before), I have been persuaded that there are two men who are under-credited for their roles in the program. One of them is Gen. Leslie Groves, whom Damon brings back to life with dignity and strength.

The other man who is given short shrift regarding his role in the Manhattan Project is then-Lt. Col., ultimately Maj. Gen. Sir Kenneth Nichols. He is the most egregious victim of Nolan’s hatchet in this film. The moderate talent of Dane DeHaan takes the brilliant, likable, diplomatic chief planner of Oak Ridge and turns him into a greasy used car salesman who uses the very Atomic Energy Commission that Nichols himself helped create into Christ’s “brood of vipers.” Shameful. Untrue. Wrong.

I’ll let those be my final words on Christopher Nolan’s “Oppenheimer.”

J. Robert Oppenheimer poses in front of the mantle at the Alexander House in Oak Ridge, Tennessee in 1946. A copy of this photo currently sits upon the mantle of the refurbished Alexander Guest House, which is now an elder care assisted living facility.

Slavery

I had a disturbing encounter with some very dear friends earlier this evening. These friends are intelligent, passionate and principled, They do not, in my experience, take serious matters lightly, nor vice-versa.

So, when the discussion came up regarding the recent trend within the United States military (and, specifically, within the United States Army) of renaming military installations, I was initially surprised at their opposition to such decisions.

The practice of re-naming (or naming) military institutions after Confederate military personnel began in the early 20th century with the rise of “Lost Cause” rebel sympathizers. These individuals sought to reframe the southern position for war in the 1860s as one of “states rights” or economics rather than a white supremecist position to support and advance race-based slavery. It was purely political on their part. The military conceding to these people was justified by the bases in question all being in former Confederate territory and the United States Army seeking recruits and local good will.

Fort Benning (Georgia), which currently bears the name of the moody-yet-capable Confederate general Henry Benning, is suggested to become Fort Moore in honor of Vietnam-era Lt. Gen. Hal Moore (author of “We Were Soldiers Once – And Young”) and his wife, Julia (Julie) Moore, who was the driving force behind United States Army uniformed casualty notification teams.

Fort Bragg (North Carolina), for the time being, still bearing the name of the moderately effective rebel general Braxton Bragg, will hopefully be renamed Fort Liberty.

Fort Gordon (Georgia) is currently named after John Brown Gordon, a man who achieved battlefield notoriety largely upon his ability to attract bullets like a magnet. It will hopefully be re-named Fort Eisenhower upon which no further explanation for its namesake will be required.

Fort A.P. Hill (Virginia) is named for Ambrose Powell Hill, popular, fun and wounded more with venereal disease than he ever was with bullets, and possibly one of the few Confederate military generals to have never owned a slave. It will be renamed Fort Walker, in honor of Mary Walker, a Union volunteer who was denied enlistment but served as a medic, POW and ultimately the nation’s first (and, still, only) female Medal of Honor recipient.

Fort Hood (Texas) is named after John Bell Hood of Kentucky, a man whose promotion to general of the Confederate Army of Tennessee was called by Pulitzer-prize winning historian Bruce Catton, “probably the single largest mistake that either government made during the war.” It is suggested to be named Fort Cavazos in honor of Korean War and Vietnam War veteran Gen. Richard Cavazos, a native Texan, who was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. Twice. In two separate wars.

Fort Lee (Virginia) is named after Robert E. Lee, the poster child for the causes of the American Civil War. It’s suggested that it be named Fort Gregg-Adams after two Army veterans of some merit, Lt. Gen. Arthur Gregg and Lt. Col. Charity Adams.

Fort Pickett (Virginia) is named after Major General George Pickett. Alone among the remembered military leaders of the Confederacy, the last graduate of West Point in 1846, he was popular, fun and tenacious. Regrettably, he also murdered 22 United States Army prisoners. It is to be renamed Fort Barfoot in honor of Tech. Sgt. Van Barfoot who earned the Medal of Honor for his heroic actions in Italy during World War II.

Fort Polk (Louisiana) is NOT named for former President James Knox Polk (who served as a cavalry captain in Tennessee), but rather named for rebel general Leonidas Polk whose largest positive characteristic was that he was viscerally hated by fellow Confederate Braxton Bragg. It will likely bear the name Fort Johnson in honor of Medal of Honor recipient Sgt. Henry Johnson, who, during World War I, in what often degenerated into hand-to-hand knife combat, fought off a German ambush.

Finally, Fort Rucker (Alabama) bears its name for rebel officer Edmund Rucker, who can claim fame as having been ransomed from a Union prison camp by the man who would later found the Ku Klux Klan, Nathan Bedford Forrest. It will be named Fort Novosel in what maybe one of the most understated honors ever bestowed. Michael Novosel was an Army veteran of World War II, Korean War (as a USAFR colonel) and Vietnam War (as a CWO4), where he would ultimately earn the Medal of Honor for making 15 trips into a hot fire zone in his UH-1, rescuing 29 SVA soldiers.

There are absolutely NO circumstances that have been suggested by the Pentagon wherein the traitorous individuals for whom southern, former rebel territory bases were named aren’t more appropriately named for American military heroes.

As the discussion with my friends progressed, it came to light that the objection was more to the perceived yielding to current political pressures than it was to the actual names of the facilities themselves. I made clear that my support of changing the nomenclature of these military installations was solely based upon my visceral, passionate hatred of the Confederacy.

Ironically, the political environment of the United States of America immediately following the end of the Civil War was largely unsympathetic to the rebellion itself. For obvious reasons, northern citizens held regionally based antipathy toward the former Confederate states.

But, it should be noted, many within the southern states themselves were unhappy with former Confederates. The state of Tennessee, for example, voted in 1861 to remain within the Union. It was that state’s governor at the outbreak of secession, Isham G. Harris, who ignored the outcome of the public vote and allied the state with the rebellion. In that decision, Harris brought much bloodshed and destruction upon the Volunteer State which, had he followed the plebiscite, would have been minimized or eliminated.

It needs to be restated that the bases in question are all located in former Confederate states. These locations were named (or in most cases RE-named) for rebel leaders because of the military’s desire to improve recruitment in these areas and to improve PR among local communities.

These locations did NOT receive their names because the particular individuals bore any nobility of character or contributed to development of the nation which they all betrayed.

This fact, however, led to a deeper discussion regarding the actual motives and prosecution of the American Civil War itself.

Col. Ty Seidule, former Chair of History at the United States Military Academy at West Point, summarizes the cause of the American Civil War in a brief YouTube presentation through Prager University.

He is in error regarding the votes of secession not being close (as we have mentioned, Tennessee citizens actually voted to remain within the Union, although he is likely only referring to representative votes among state legislatures). All his other points in this video are historically and factually accurate.

In the interest of candor, I should say that I am a historical and political conservative. Along with this, I am an originalist in American constitutional interpretation. It is a proven fact that Black Americans are progressively achieving higher levels of recognition in the United States, as well as equal justice under law (this final point has seen the pendulum pursuit of justice swing wildly out of hand, in some cases).

Obviously, both our government and our citizens must remain vigilant to ensure equal applications of law and justice with no regard for race of any kind.

This said, history clearly demonstrates that the foundation of this country ignored in its charter, the Constitution of the United States of America, the obvious, self-evident truth “that all men are created equal.” It did so by allowing the southern colonies to continue to practice and advance “the peculiar institution” of race-based slavery despite the northern colonies being willing to eliminate chattel slavery as it was a moral evil and an obvious violation of the letter and spirit of the Declaration of Independence itself.

While slavery was established by the British (and also advanced by the Portuguese, Dutch, Spanish, French and others) in what would become the United States, the British Empire itself outlawed chattel slavery on February 23, 1807, a full 54 years prior to the outbreak of the American Civil War over the continued practice and advancement of slavery.

So, having made the moral compromise that continued to imprison innocent humans for labor based solely upon the color of their skin, the United States had exchanged its existence for what would become the freedom and lives of around 4,000,000 people.

Should this compromise have been made? If it hadn’t been made, it is unlikely that the United States would have come into existence. What the world would have looked like without America, is a question that arises out of this. Is there ever a good time to intentionally make a moral compromise?

Goodbye, World’s Best Cat.

From the day I met her, I wanted her to be mine.

At the time, the only pets I’d ever had were dogs. I liked dogs. I even loved a few dogs. They’re loyal and consistent. Dogs live by a pattern and have favorite things and even favorite people.

Cats, though, are, well, cats. They live without attachment to pattern. Most times, they’d just as soon ignore you as to look at you. Generally, cats are equally indifferent to humans, whether you live in the same house with them or not.

But, Jaina was different . . . so very different.

She welcomed people. She loved attention. Even when she acted like she didn’t (see photo above).

When Laura moved to New England and Jaina moved in permanently with us, we initially tried to leave her at home in the care of our son, Robbie, while we went to Chattanooga for my annual “Christmas comittment.”

Unfortunately, Robbie and his wife took the opportunity to shave our cat. Not really. Sort of.

As it turned out, when we got back from Chattanooga, Jaina had developed a noticeable bald spot on her stomach. I mean, VERY noticeable. After repeated accusations and denials, we learned that some cats, when under duress, will lick themselves to the point of removing their fur.

Jaina had shaved herself.

This past year, upon returning, she started exhibiting some more serious issues. We took her in to see our veterinarian who gave us some bad news.

Jaina was in the final stages of kidney failure.

There were extreme steps that we could take, we were told. But the condition was irreversible and ultimately terminal. Based upon the results of her blood tests, the vet said the end could be any time.

So, we knew we weren’t going to pursue any of the extreme treatments just for the sake of getting a little more time. And the trauma and frequency of the treatments would seriously impact her quality of life. We settled in, waiting for the end, and decided to make her comfortable, happy and spoiled for her last days.

Those “last” days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months. Almost five months, to be exact.

Jaina lived five of the best months of her life at the end. She was more active and entertaining in those months than ever. She would hide in closets.

Once, after a protracted search and near panic from both Susan and myself, we found her in the kitchen on top of the cabinets with her back pressed against the ceiling. Another time, all we could hear was meowing. Finally, after having eliminated every other possibility, we discovered she’d wedged herself behind the microwave.

Of course, she could have gotten out by herself. She just wanted to show off.

One recent Christmas, our son-in-law, Shane was given a tartan plaid blanket. Since it was too bulky to pack into luggage for a return flight to New York City (or because he didn’t really like it – he’s hard to read sometimes), he gifted it to Jaina. She did not hesitate to put it to good use.

I laid her to rest early this morning between the rose bushes in our yard. I cut out a section of her blanket and it served as her burial shroud.

When I left her to rest this morning, I tried to sleep. That wasn’t possible. I got up and told her goodbye. I loaded my Christmas suits into the truck and drove to Sevierville to take them to the cleaners. I’d hoped that the beautiful rive down 321 would help.

Just before I sat own to write this, I had been sitting in the truck in tears for about an hour with the realization that this will be the first time I’ll have entered this house without her.

Love you, Crazy Kitty.

Trump

I don’t particularly like Donald Trump.

I did not vote for him in 2016. I chose to write in Ted Cruz. But I voted to re-elect Donald Trump in 2020. It was the final U.S. federal election in which I will participate.

As I explained to a family member at the time, I did not vote for individual people. Instead, I voted for the candidate who most closely mirrored my personal ideologies.

I did not know enough, politically, about Trump in 2016, so I didn’t vote for him. He was vague on some issues that were important to me. He had failed to commit on a stance to certain points.

I knew Ted Cruz. I had researched him. I had met with him. I had spoken with him. So, I voted for him despite the criticism that I was “throwing my vote away.”

In 2020, Mr. Trump had an effective track record as president. And, even though he was not a good human being, he was running against a worse human being whose mental capacity was questionable. The United States chose to elect a horrible human being with questionable mental capacity.

And that was how such matters work. So be it.

Today, however, the United States of America ceased to exist.

What today has proven, unlike any other time in American history, is that the power of government can – and will – be turned against people who disagree with that government. The problem isn’t just that is sets a disturbing precedent. That is a given.

No, the real danger here is that there is no point at which this process can be expected to stop. Logically, from the time a former president is indicted by his political opponents, those opponents can only escalate their persecution. And, further, those opponents can only rationally act in like manner once they have regained power.

What the district attorney, Alvin Bragg, has done is the bidding of a political sponsor instead of following the law. It cannot end here, no matter what verdict is issued by a kangaroo court.

This was the Rubicon.

Just as Julius Caesar’s crossing of that tiny creek in central Italy meant that there was no turning back to the Roman Republic, so too does Bragg’s decision mean that the American republic is dead.

We cannot return to a time when political ideas were simply differences of opinion. Instead, we must attack our opposition at every turn, whether they are in power or not. Only the elimination of those who disagree with us can be pursued.

Compromise is for the weak. Understanding is for the loser. Victory to the merciless and brutal.

Two-hundred and forty-seven years. It was a good run.

Reading

I’ve been a reader for as long as I have memory.

This isn’t to claim some superhuman status. Clearly, there was a time in my life when I couldn’t read.

But, reading or being read to as a small child is present in many of my vivid recollections. There are photographs of my mother reading to me on a window seat in our early home in Edinboro, Pennsylvania. I remember my father reading American Heritage articles to me as a boy. My grandmother was an elementary school teacher who read to all of her grandchildren regularly.

Reading, however, is – or, rather, can be – a gateway drug. No. In fact, it should be a gateway drug.

The act of reading should lead to thinking. And thinking should lead to writing. And all of it is communication. So, whether the thinking leads to writing or speaking or art or anything else, it’s all a link in the chain that starts with reading and writing.

Cave paintings in Lascaux, France are an example of prehistoric, pre-alphabetic communication (i.e.; writing/reading). The drawings of prehistoric cattle (aurochs), deer and horses are estimated to be as much as 20,000 years old. Recent prehistoric art discoveries in Indonesia are more than twice as old as Lascaux, strongly suggesting that a human need to communicate through such mediums is innate.

As a reader, I, personally, became a writer. This obviously isn’t a universal pattern among readers. One would hope that at least thinking results from reading. But it’s neither a requirement nor guarantee. The same is true of writing as it relates to reading.

Some writing isn’t necessarily based upon thought. As the cave art of Europe, Indonesia, Australia and around the world demonstrates, humans sometimes simply choose to communicate the world around them. Before it became an obscene profession, modern humans called this “journalism.”

When the cave paintings of prehistory were etched, there was no culture attempting to censor their creator. The artists were free to depict a deer in the manner they interpreted a deer. Sure. It’s possible that someone named Og mumbled “It not look like deer to me.” But, critics are a natural outgrowth of thought. And they should be.

What is recent and alien and damaging to the freedom that reading and writing and thought require to survive is an uncritical condemnation of ideas.

Having an opinion is not a right. It’s like a navel. We all have them from birth on various subjects.

But simply having an opinion doesn’t mean the opinion has merit. The painting may not look like a deer to Og (“Grog, the antlers are perfect! How can you say it doesn’t look like a deer?!”), but unless we can logically and reasonably explain our dislike (“”Cuz me think legs too skinny; and deers’ necks look like giraffe’s,”), then our ideas about the writing – or art – themselves are invalid (“Me not know . . . me just no like it.”)

That’s not an idea. It’s an opinion

All ideas are not equal. But they cannot be dismissed simply on the merit of “we don’t like it.” This is a hallmark of modern thinking. Simply dismissing or prohibiting discussion of a particular thought or idea based upon the preference of an individual or group is antithetical to freedom.

Ideas must be heard, discussed, defended and reasoned over. Then, after that process, ideas can be dismissed. And, the process and discussions can be written, saving humans from repeating said process and allowing the species and its development to continue more readily.

Humans must zealously protect the freedom to write, read and think openly. Some ideas, if unchallenged, can have painful outcomes. But that pain is mild and incomparable to the pain an idea can produce once it is banished from discussion.

The light of truth and discussion cause darkness and deceit to fall away.

Conclusion

I will endure

I will survive.

Until I don’t.

Then, I will return Home to the One Who created me.

I long for that day. But I cannot choose it. And its arrival is certain above all other truth.

When others look back on my life, I hope they acknowledge I stood firmly in my principles.

I’ve failed in multiple regards in life. But I have things that I hold sacrosanct which I defend and protect. God, let those things be obvious and let them belong to You.

Humanity

Being human means our whole existence takes place in the presence of two important truths.

1). You were made by God.

2). You rebel against God.

These two things are true of you. They’re true of me. And everyone else who has ever come out of their mother’s womb (except One . . . we’ll get to that).

Whether or not a person believes in God has no effect on the truths. They are always there. They are always real. The two truths don’t move, change nor waiver. Whether you accept the truths yourself does not impact their reality. Not accepting them, however, is an example of the second truth – rebellion against God. This is because God not only determines what truth is and is not, He is Truth.

Now, not believing in God is actually not the only way humans rebel against God. Many of us who proclaim to both believe and follow God are equally guilty of rebelling against God as is the most devout atheist.

So, what can humans do? We were made by a God who we can’t see and Who both knew and expected us to rebel against to His direction. It’s a classic catch-22. There’s no way out. And this is just the logical conversation. When we get into the depth of theological discussion on “what did God know and when did He know it?” . . . well, then we get into the Law and observances. We’re damned no matter what.

Until . . .

A catch-22, by definition, doesn’t allow for a successful resolution. But God, knowing the two fundamental truths that we live under, also designed a safety net to the condemnation, a backdoor to the matrix. And HE was the resolution.

Jesus Christ saw all the rebellion from His position in eternity. Everyone of our sins were visible to Him before He accepted the mission to suffer death, brutality and humiliation in exchange for every . . . single . . . one of us. He knew some of us would accept His suffering and sacrifice. He knew some of us would figuratively (and, in some cases, literally) mock His actions and spit upon Him.

He also knew that even some of those who accepted Him and His actions on their behalf would continue to rebel even within their rescue from condemnation.

But He did it anyway.

So, the two truths of humanity, two truths that combine to create free will, are both fulfilled and circumvented by God Himself. They are no more or less true because of His salvation of us, just as the condemnation is no more or less real because of our denial.

Both in music and in theology, two different things can be true at the same time.

Hope

I’m a Christ-follower. I’m using that term here because the phrase “Christian” has become so watered down and shallow that it means nothing. People use it the same way they use “American” or “hero”.

All three of these words used to have a shared, recognized meaning in our culture. But we no longer have a shared culture, so we shouldn’t be surprised that our words have no shared meaning.

A “Christian” was once defined as “a person who has received Christian baptism or is a believer in Christianity.” But there is no longer a shared definition of Christianity itself. Christians can believe Jesus Christ was divine, a third component of the Trinity with the Father and the Holy Spirit. Or, Christians can believe that Jesus was a good teacher, a wise man who led by example and taught love. Both definitions are equally prevalent in our culture.

An “American” was once defined as “a native or citizen of the United States.” While the law created the idea of birthright citizenship, that was not always the case. And, with recently attempted legislation, residents and citizens of any country will be considered American by their presence within the borders of the United States.

A “hero” was once defined as “a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.” Over time, our culture has used hero to describe everything from firefighters and police who entered the World Trade Center on 9/11 to grocery store employees who showed up to work.

These are a very few examples of something I discussed in my previous entry: control and manipulation of the language. When a particular ideological group controls the means of communication, ultimately that group will control the language and how it is applied.

Recent civil unrest has served to highlight the growing divides in American society. As the nation’s breakdown accelerates, the impact of its Judeo-Christian culture has almost disappeared completely.

So, those of us who rebel against the group in question must invent our own terms to accurately identify our thoughts and conditions.

Hence, Christ-follower. One who follows Christ. It does not refer to a church or denomination. Rather, a Christ-follower is led by a historical, spiritual and supernatural figure. This makes reinterpreting terms more difficult (although, certainly not impossible).

The difficulty with the current state of the United States of America is that many of us are at varying points. Like Kubler-Ross’ stages, many of us are just now entering the first stage: denial. We believe that the United States is still a perfectly healthy and functional political entity. There’s nothing wrong with a little division, they say. Diversity is good. The government is just trying to keep people safe by lockdown. Rioting and looting can be a sign of a positive change.

This thinking is denial.

But, what makes this stage dangerous in a national death as opposed to the death of a person is that the denial when facing geopolitical entities can gravitate toward a false and dangerous nationalism. I say this as one who went through this phase about 18 years ago.

Americans – and I include myself in this group – once had a tendency to blend their nation and their God. And this is very reasonable given the clear Judeo-Christian influence upon our founding. Thomas Jefferson was clear in the Declaration. There was a Creator. Representative, republican government was established in the Bible in the book of Judges.

But, as reasonable as it may appear on the surface, it is wrong. God, the Creator, Providence . . . whatever Its name . . . stands above nations. He judges nations. He does not favor any man or nation or race over another. So, by claiming that America had an inside track to God, we – I – helped pave our own destruction.

Christ is a personal savior. When we called the United States of America “a Christian nation,” we were being untruthful. A nation cannot be “Christian.” It’s like looking at an inner city parking garage and saying “That’s a General Motors parking garage” when you know full well there will be Toyotas and Fords and Hyundais and Dodges parked in it as well. Unless you’re willing to stand at the gate and bar entry to all other brands, your parking garage will never be a “General Motors parking garage.”

And that is particularly difficult to do if your parking garage is 3,800,000 square miles.

Unlike cars, however, people all have the same creator. And there is only one Savior for them. We will not likely turn all of them into Christ-followers (although, that is the hope). What the United States of America tried to do was to foster that environment by which the greatest number of people would have the greatest level of liberty to pursue their highest dreams. And in that, they might turn to their Creator in thanks and humility, seeking the salvation we all need.

It worked. But only for a while.

We failed in myriad ways. America didn’t eliminate chattel slavery. We withheld the vote from women. America replaced the roles of churches with government and people became greedy. We slaughter millions of babies every year and claim it’s a “right.” We used religion as a stick rather than a carrot in human sexuality.

These were our failings. Gradually, we overcame or are overcoming all of them.

But Satan does not build upon the triumphs of God’s people. Instead, he cultivates their failures.

When we hear black Americans claim slavery or racism give them the freedom to violate God’s commandments, we are hearing the voice of Satan.

When we hear women claim that they are oppressed by a system that favors and supports them, a system that Jesus Christ Himself made possible and achievable, we are hearing the voice of Satan.

When we hear Americans claim that the slaughter of innocents through abortion is a “human right,” we are hearing the voice of Satan.

When we hear people say that sexuality is equal to love and that they are free to do as they choose with bodies that were given to them by God, we hear the voice of Satan.

And, finally, when we hear ourselves say that we are better than any or all of the sinners above who are following the voice of Satan, we become the voice of Satan.

So . . . where does this leave us?

The United States of America was – and, for the time being, is – a wonderful experiment. It was driven by one of the greatest empires in human history, the British Empire, which did more to spread the Gospel than any culture before it. When the American colonies rebelled against the Crown, they were fulfilling the promise of that same empire from as far back as Magna Carta.

But, as the sins of the father often follow the son, the United States’ sins continue to haunt us. America has spread the Gospel to the stars. The Bible has been read by Americans on the surface of other worlds.

And none of this makes the United States of America a “Christian nation.” Such a beast does not exist, cannot exist. We are no different than any other nation. No better, no worse. We are as prone to rise or fall as China or India or Russia or Zambia. In fact, some may say our fall may be more assured precisely because of our spiritual history (that’s a topic for a different day).

The point to all of this is this: I see the coming collapse of the United States of America not as an insurmountable human tragedy, although it is indeed tragic. The world will become a more dangerous, less prosperous place without the stability America has provided.

In that danger, however, amid the poverty that will wash over the world (including America) in waves, there will be God. He will be reaching out to people. Individual people. To protect them. To provide for them. To comfort them. Just as God has done since Eden fell, just as Jesus has done since he was born, just as the Holy Spirit has done since the Universe began.

And in that, I place my faith and all my confidence. Not in a flag. Not in an anthem. Not in a government of men. Not in the United States of America.

But, rather in Christ. And in Christ alone.

Jaina

I wasn’t at all a person who liked cats. Until I found the world’s best cat.

meandjaina

That’s me holding the world’s best cat. Her name is Jaina.

I should be very clear here. I used to dislike cats. I mean, I didn’t hate cats. But, rather than being creatures to be appreciated, I considered them a part of creation that had to be tolerated for their own sake. It was my belief that cats shared this assessment of humans.

Then, I met Jaina.

Jaina was given to our daughter, Laura, by some old friends from church. Jaina is a Manx cat, so she’s physically different than most cats. Her breed is famous for having dramatically short tails, or, as is the case with Jaina, no tail at all.

Jaina does not consider this a handicap.

Manx cats also have powerful hind legs that allow them to jump greater distances and heights than average cats. At our old house in Florida, Jaina would stand at the refrigerator door and bound to the top of a six-foot-tall refrigerator. With a good half-a-foot to spare.

Laura called her a “cabbit,” half-cat/half-rabbit.

She’s older now and no longer feels it necessary to display her athletic prowess. She and I share this trait.

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Jaina, however, did not reset my conception of cats based upon her breeding or physique. Rather, her personality is as opposite to traditional cat behavior as I have ever seen.

Cats are notoriously quiet. They skulk stealthily through their environments, seldom making noise.

Jaina can be quiet when she decides to do so. But she generally chooses to tromp or patter into a room, announcing her arrival with a “MAHHWWW.” It is the feline equivalent to “WHASSUP MAH NIGGAS?!”

Cats are famous for being aloof. Jaina is not. She requires human companionship. And she is not reluctant to request . . . no, that’s not right . . . she insists upon it.

When I am seated on the couch, she will walk along the back of the couch to where she is at my shoulders, swing her hips to swivel her ass so as to hit me in the back of the head, and then crawl upon my chest while she waits for my arm to support her, and then collapse on her back, exposing a soft, furry tummy in dire need of rubbing. She concludes the invitation with a subtle ” . . . mawh . . . ”

When my daughter moved out of our house in Florida, she took Jaina with her. I protested. But I was powerless,

After a year or so, Laura moved to another place with some different roommates. I enlisted one of the first group of roommates, Arlene, to help arrange a “disappearance” which would somehow lead to Jaina mysteriously making her way back to our old place.

We couldn’t pull it off.

Last year, at about this time, Laura moved up to Tennessee with us. Jaina came with her. I drove down to pick them and their things up. The cat had lived indoors almost her entire life, except for a few tense-and-unrewarding weeks where she reluctantly and grudgingly moved between a few neighborhood yards.

We weren’t sure how the 720 mile voyage would be handled by a cat that had probably never travelled more than a block,

Jaina did great. She initially expressed her concern about being relegated to the back seat by herself. But, she adjusted rapidly with only an occasional complaint.

Our place here in Oak Ridge is a little less than 1,000 square feet, so she acclimated quickly. Susan and I were familiar to her. And she had her Mommy with her.

Since becoming a Tennessee cat, she’s been outdoors a couple times. Doesn’t much care for it. When she feels adventurous, she asks to go roam around out in the garage. The neighbor cat comes by an open window now and then and they exchange information on the changes going on about the area.

Last week, after much discussion and reflection, Laura moved back to Florida. I was initially unhappy, mostly because we would miss Laura, but also because it would mean Jaina being (again) taken from a home she’d become accustomed to for a stressful trip to a new and unfamiliar place.

You can imagine how elated I was when I received the following note on Christmas morning.

jaina-florida

My nickname since our kids were little in the mid-90s has been, eponomously, “Big Cat Daddy” after a classic Brooks & Dunn song. Here’s a close up of that letter.

jaina-note

Jaina throws up once a week or so for no reason whatsoever. Laura has taken her to veterinarians, changed her diet, restricted all kinds of things, given her medicines, etc. Nothing stopped her from occasionally throwing up. Finally, she decided it wasn’t really a big deal. It’s rare. It’s sporadic. It cleans up quickly. And the cat doesn’t seem to care because she goes right back to eating when she’s finished. I’m not advocating ignoring human eating disorders, but the world has bigger issues than a bulimic kitty.

Today, however, was my first challenge with Jaina as her official parent.

One of her claws had started to grow thicker, as they often do with animals (and people) as they grow older. Laura and I were unable to clip it with the regular clippers without getting through the nailbed. Over the last couple of weeks, it had pierced her paw pad and started digging into her.

It was time for a professional. I didn’t know how she would do, having to go outdoors and in a car. In Tennessee. I was worried. Jaina, apparently, not so much. This is her just prior to getting in the car.

jaina-sleepy

No alcohol or cat sedatives were involved, however, she protested enough to being put into the Pontiac and covered with a clothes basket that she very mildly scratched both Susan and myself.

But through the protests in the car, she was incredibly well-behaved. We went to Suite Life Pet Resort in Oak Ridge. I gave Rebecca a quick story of how Jaina felt about being outside and she offered to clip all of her nails quickly right there at the front counter. Jaina never even had to go in the back! It took, maybe, 10 minutes – probably less!

We’ll be watching the paw pad and cleaning it where Rebecca removed the claw from the flesh. But I was thrilled.

Anyway, here is my point: at one time in my life, I had closed myself off to cats. Didn’t like ’em. Didn’t want one. Went out of my way to avoid them. Then I met one who changed all my preconceptions. She was different. She was my cat . . . even when she wasn’t my cat.

And now she’s my cat. And I can’t be happier about that.

My Dog’s Life – Death, Part 2.

These are the earliest known photos of Misa Purdie.

 

I didn’t want her.

I mean, it’s not that I didn’t want her, specifically. I didn’t want another dog. Of any kind.

We had lived with two basset hounds before. As a breed, they are famously loyal, myopically trusting of their owners and patient with children to the point of amazement.

These qualities kept our previous dogs – Mindy and Princess – in good stead for their respective times with us.

But, our children had transformed into that dubious stage of humanity known as adolescence. I knew among the hallmarks of that phase were constant irresponsibility and perpetual whining (combined with extended periods of sleep and eating).

You can see why I didn’t want Misa. Or any dog.

Still, at my wife’s urging and my children’s pleading, we accepted Misa from a church friend who needed to re-home their six-month old basset puppy. Misa was a purebred, AKC registered basset. From Iowa. Which is where Susan and I met.

So, I could turn away a Hawkeye hound. Basset. Puppy. In need. From church friends. That my children vowed to care for. And go on about a more relaxed, carefree time getting our kids out of our house.

Or, I could suck it up, take the dog, make everybody else happy and end up doing everything for it myself.

I chose “B.”

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Basset hounds have a life expectancy of 8-12 years. Misa died between 10 and 11 PM on Saturday, June 16, 2018 at the age of 11 1/2.

She was the best dog I’ve ever lived with. I try to avoid attributing human value to other forms of life (more on this later). But, if I am being honest, and that was one of my initial goals in re-entering this phase of my writing adventure, I have to express this.

I loved her. She was one of my best friends in life.

I’d never been without a job in over two decades of family life living in Florida. Within six months of Misa’s arrival with our family, I was laid off. For the first time. Several more would follow.

She didn’t care. She loved me being home with her.

When the opportunity presented itself for us to leave Florida after 33 years and start our adventure in Tennessee, Susan had to go before us. Misa and our son Robbie and I all stayed behind. Misa understood something was changing. She stayed by us.

At near midnight on that October moving night, with my SUV loaded on a trailer behind a 26-foot U-Haul, Misa said good-bye to the only home she ever really knew and curled up in the passenger seat next to me.

We made it together. And we were both so happy to see Mommy. And Tennessee.

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So, the three of us started our adventure together. Soon, Robbie joined us. And life seemed like it was going to get fixed forever in that pleasant rhythm we’d established in Florida for those decades. Susan and I would often joke that we half-expected The Hound (that was her official title, as our family tends to reduce our members to the fundamental levels of our particular existences, e.g.: The Mama, The Dada, The Boy, etc.) to outlive us and require one of the kids to take her, thereby bestowing a level of ironic justice upon at least one of them.

I came home from work that Friday night. As I pulled in the garage, I could already hear her frenzied barking that indicated to anyone inside (and within a two-mile radius) that one of Misa’s pack was home. Susan didn’t have to travel this week, so she was the blessed recipient of the Baskervillian cacophony that ensued each night.

Misa followed me in to change then went back out into the living room and laid down next to a chair as Susan and I talked about the day.

As I walked into the living room, I passed Misa and remarked to her that she was in a weird position and she couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Then, I sat down with a reheated slice of pizza.

Susan asked, concerned, “Where’s The Hound?”

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where there’s Batman, there’s Robin. Where there’s pizza, there’s The Hound.

Slowly, as Susan rounded the chair, Misa unsteadily rose, her back legs paralyzed, but still trying to get to Susan as she spoke to her. We laid her back down and tried to determine how bad this was as I cleaned up after her.

“You’re a good Misa,” we repeated, letting her know she wasn’t in trouble. “We love Misa,” as we laid on the floor with her by the front door.

Within five minutes, Misa was gone.

Life has infinite variations. We all live differently, make different choices and experience it uniquely.

Death has the same degree of variety.

I am convinced that Misa was already dead when I entered the living room and I simply didn’t know it. God resurrected her long enough for Susan and I to say good-bye, for her to experience being loved one more time and to prepare all three of us for the future.

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I continue to mourn. More so than I’ve done for almost any human in my life. Something in me finds an imbalance in that fact. As I told my son, she was a better person than most people. True or not, I’m having to reconcile my emotional reality with my spiritual reality.

It’s getting easier. But it’s far from over. It may never be.

“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I, John, saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. 

“And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.

“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

“And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful.

“And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely.

“He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.” – Revelation 21:1-7