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By Mama Paloma, 18/07/2012 22:10

This is a tough post for me to write for a couple of reasons. The subject matter is sensitive and the situation in question has been really, really difficult for me.

It’s every parent’s nightmare…that your kid tells you that someone did something to them. You know the kind of ‘something’ I mean. In my case, it wasn’t so bad. My kid told me that another kid had introduced him to, ahem, age-inappropriate information and activity. My kid, in a very preschool manner, told me initially by acting out with me, suggesting I do to him what he was asked to do to another child. My twenty-plus years of dealing with these kinds of disclosures (had to do my first suspected child abuse report over 20 years ago while a volunteer in college), knowledge of child development, and experience helping children who have been through sexual abuse served me well. I think I’ve done okay and my kid will be okay.

But this situation has me thinking about  how damn hard it is for adults to deal with these kinds of situations on behalf of kids. This has been the worst part of the whole thing for me. In the ONE situation in my WHOLE LIFE where I should be able to just be the mom – just look after my child, just fall apart when he’s asleep and a friend is near – I have had to be an advocate, an educator, and a scapegoat.

His awesome preschool that I have loved for many reasons has flat out refused to take responsibility. Their response to my clearly articulated concerns has been to state 1) what happened was ‘nothing out of the ordinary’ (trust me, it was) and 2) that it didn’t happen.

The fact is, it did happen. My kid spontaneously described at least four interactions with two different children in three specific locations. What happened wasn’t ‘ordinary’ behavior for 4 and 5 year olds. The things that were done and said are things that a kid does and says when an adult has done and said them to the kid, or when another child who has been abused acts out with that kid. Do I know where it started? No. Do I know that it started somewhere? Yes.

Somewhere is patient zero, the child who was abused.

And this school that is otherwise so loving, so protective, so encouraging to little minds, would prefer to put their collective heads in the sand than deal with that reality. It has been made clear to me that I am the problem and that they don’t want other parents at the school to know that anything really happened.

Adult fear is understandable but can not be a reason for ignoring a problem. Kids who have been acted out with, like my son, are primed for future abuse and for acting out with other kids, perpetuating and expanding the circle of vulnerability. I can’t participate in that.

So, my son is going elsewhere and we are getting professional help to try to ensure that this stops here. There may be other ramifications for the school’s choice but I can’t control that.

Which brings me to my thought number two – what I can do. Which is why I am writing about this, my experience. Like I said, my kid is going to be okay. I have handled things remarkably well, if I do say so myself.

And I am a wreck. My eyes are constantly red and irritated from fatigue but I haven’t slept before midnight without Benadryl (hard core drug for me) in over three weeks. I get heartburn (heartburn? didn’t realize what it was for a few days…never have it) whenever I think/talk/write about it (excuse me while I get a Pepto). Mostly, I am sad. Sad, and scared. Even though I know I have done things right, that what happened was relatively minor (I have plenty of perspective on that), I worry that this will be somehow significant in his schema. I am grieving my inability to keep him protected from the seediness of the world for a little longer.

And I am mad. Mad at whatever adult started this string of acting out with some kid out there. Mad at the school for responding so poorly. Mad at our twisted up culture that links sex and shame so tidily and deeply and keeps parents and kids silent about their experiences.

It makes me appreciate how hard this is for other parents who don’t have the benefit of years of training and experience, of seeing the effects of unattended abuse and the benefits of appropriate action. Other parents who had their own weird experiences and don’t want to mess up their kids with their own ‘issues’ and so believe a school administrator when they finally get up the nerve to say something and hear “Oh, that’s normal.” Parents who are so scared to see/hear what their kid is trying to show/tell them that they hope it will just go away, that their kid will forget.

And so I am committed: to making our communities safer for kids, to expanding the circle of support for parents.

But first I am going to go about making sure my kid is all right, that he gets to learn about his body and sexuality in safe and enjoyable ways, at the times that are right for him.

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By Mama Paloma, 08/04/2012 09:42

I posted last night’s essay, rather impulsively, without waiting, at 12:30am. The first thought I had on waking this morning was this:

Redemption isn’t about receiving love, it’s about giving love.

What? The other half of my brain responded. But that’s backwards.

As I pondered it more, this idea began to make more sense to me. I reflected again on the piece I read last night about the “penal-substitution theory of atonement.” The author proposes that Jesus didn’t die to balance some kind of cosmic account. He didn’t “pay our price” because that would mean God didn’t really forgive but just transferred our balance to someone else who paid. He died because he lived out his practice. Gently, relentlessly, he spoke over and over of God’s unbelievable love and forgiveness. This was so threatening to the powers that be that he was killed. He lived his practice of love even though it killed him.

Whether you believe that accounts of Jesus are literally true or not (for the record, I don’t really know and this doesn’t bother me), the Jesus of  Biblical stories was indeed the perfect role model of love. He redeemed through his love. I consider myself a Christian (though others won’t because of that last parenthetical comment) because I endeavor to follow that example of living from love. (And am supported in this by Buddhist and Taoist teaching and meditation, especially, as they give practical direction on reigning in the ‘ego’ that so often gets in the way of that radical kind of love.)

Still, somewhere in my rational, Western mind, redemption has been sort of separate from love. Love is great and all but people need to be accountable.

This has been a major barrier in sorting things out with the-one-I-am-having-such-a-hard-time-loving. I realized that have demanded in a number of ways that he be accountable for his actions as a precondition for my continuing to show loving-kindess towards him. I can pray for his happiness and well being but I still, somewhere deep down, want him to pay.

I have been looking at the other person as being the one in need of redemption and forgiveness. He’s the one who did wrong, right?

Right?

I get heaps of support for this. Righteous anger and disappointment are reflected by all who care for my son and I. And, indeed, I want justice, I want consequences, I want him to know that he has wronged us and suffer for it.

Of course that’s right.

Except for this. As I realized this morning, all evidence to the contrary, I am actually not in a position to judge him–his motivations, intentions, or worthiness. My practice is acting and living out of love and equanimity. It’s what I aim for, continually move toward and back to.

The situation, as it stands, where I stand, is that I am the one in need of redemption. I have stepped off of my path of love and into the murky, dangerous realm of the cosmic balance sheet. I am mired in the muck, tangled up in the twining roots of trees that choke out the sun and hide all manner of creepy crawly things that bite.

I have felt stuck here for a long time.

What struck me this morning is that release from this stuckness – a practical and spiritual redemption – is readily available.

All I am required to do is to return to the path of kindness, gentleness, compassion, equanimity, and love regardless of the other’s actions.

Because, truly, that’s what Jesus did. He showed the way, loving even those who couldn’t see their worth and worthiness. Holding to the truth of the-Love-greater-than-we-can-imagine-or-understand even when it meant his execution and still not being held down by this – which is why we have Easter, right? – somehow rising up from destruction to live on eternally as The Inspiration to love.

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By Mama Paloma, 08/04/2012 00:20

Today, a friend (and writer in her own right)  posted a piece from Huffington Post entitled “Is God Angry at You?” In it, the author challenges the dominant Christian interpretation of Easter – what is referred to as the ”penal-substitution theory of atonement” – which I won’t go into here other than to say that I really enjoyed the writer’s critique of this taken-for-granted-in-many-circles understanding of God.

And it got me thinking about forgiveness.

Years ago, I wrote about saying prayers with my son. He was a tiny baby then, but this act had taken on some significance for me. Each night, as a part of our ritual, I would say “Please be with Addison’s daddy, wherever he is, keep him safe, and give him everything he needs to be happy.” You see, (and to save you the trouble of reading back for that bit of our story), this guy had dropped off the face of the earth about half-way through my pregnancy and we hadn’t heard from him since.

About three months after baby-daddy went AWOL, I was reading an Anne Lamott book in which the protagonist was facing betrayal and decided that she didn’t want bitterness to consume her – so she started praying for the betrayer. This resonated so strongly with me that I started doing the same. Every time he came to mind, every time someone else made a disparaging comment about his character or intentions, every time I thought of the pain my son would likely experience in his dad’s absence, I repeated this mantra. Well, maybe not every time, but many times, as I caught myself falling into  bitterness – mine or another’s – this little prayer pulled me back from the edge.

After a while, it got to be less hard. With the baby, it was easy, because I could imagine that his dad being happy would likely create the most possibilities for him. When the guy finally called, around the time AJ was two, there was space in my mind and heart to not turn him away from knowing his son.

But then it got real. He hadn’t become a different person. He was still dishonest and manipulative.  And now he’s done it again. After a year and a half of regular correspondence, calls, and some visits, he’s dropped off the face of the earth.

And I am pissed.

It’s one thing to mess with me…and another to mess with your child. It’s heartbreaking to be told, several times a day, “I need my daddy” or “I want my daddy” and know it’s so true and know there is nothing you can do about it.

I am pissed and I am becoming bitter. I want to punish like the God of the penal-substitution theory only I don’t want a substitute. I want retribution because it must be, or maybe it is about substitution…I want him to feel the pain that our son is feeling and going to feel in the future.

Fucker.

And, at the same time, I feel the pull of my heart – the truer, better part of myself that knows what I really want – back to that place of that simple yet profound prayer.

It was easier when he wasn’t real, when I knew nothing about him. When I could imagine he’d never actually come back.

It was easier before I had spent four plus years trying to sort out some reasonable child support situation without going to court, going further and further into debt in an effort to preserve my son’s connection only to come to this place where I can accidentally notice that he is getting along quite well, thank you, with a new life and lots of partying that somehow keeps him from bothering to call or even text his four-year-old kid who remembers that the last time they talked was his birthday two months ago.

It was easier then.

It’s more important now.

For my son, for this guy I have to fight not to despise and wish ill on. For me. I have to do it. I have to keep forgiving and wishing well and holding his safety and happiness in my heart and mind. I have to forgive myself for letting him in and exposing my child to this heartache. I have to let this forgiveness and well wishing peel back my grip on the need for justice and retribution so that I can take steps forward without entirely justifiable  malice.

I have to, as someone in the Twittersphere so eloquently put it today, speak for my anger, but not from my anger. I must speak from love.

Fuck.

Perhaps those who pray can pray for me on that one…”Give her everything she needs to be loving.”

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By Mama Paloma, 01/04/2012 22:01

It’s a feeling I know well, the weekend creeping to a close. So many things undone – laundry, housework, my son’s lunch for the morning. The week looms large.

And I just don’t have it in me.

It’s something I have been noticing for a while. This spent-ness. This fatigue that doesn’t seem to be abated by the self-care I fit in between the child and the paid work and the (very dominant) unpaid work and the halfhearted attempts to get out there and meet someone to share this crazy, wonderful life with.

I have been trying to figure out how I can live with more balance, more enjoyment, and build up some kind of reserve.

And I can’t figure it out. Time and again, my well is dry and I stare into its depths, parched and longing.

I have failed.

At least for tonight. Tonight, I am going to end the effort, head to bed, and let tomorrow come without trying to figure it all out.

Maybe it will rain.

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By Mama Paloma, 28/03/2012 18:30

There has been quite an online bruhaha today about a police surveillance video of George Zimmerman who indisputably shot and killed an unarmed 17-year-old Treyvon Martin that does not show visible signs of injury. Zimmerman has claimed through his lawyer that Treyvon “slammed” his head into the pavement before he shot the boy.

One news report I read said that the on-site police report noted injuries that are not apparent in the video. I am sure there will be much debate by armchair forensics peeps in the tweet/blog/FaceBook-osphere over this, with people taking polarized and immovable positions and abusing those who have come to differing conclusions.

And I don’t care.

This is the deal, people. If someone is following me, and comes at me, I am going to slam their head into the pavement. Actually, I am more likely to knee-them-in-the-groin-then-the-head-as-they-make-their-way-down-to-the-pavement. The likelihood that I will be arrested or they will be able to say I “attacked” them is very, very low.

Let me put this another way.

I am a woman.  Walking home from a local business, I notice someone following me. I check it out–are they following me or just also walking in the area? Nope. Following. I turn and face the person, asking them why they are following me. They come at me.

What should I do?

I’ll tell you what I should do, as a woman.

Fight for my freaking life,

hopefully efficient enough in using the  knee-them-in-the-groin-then-the-head-as-they-make-their-way-down-to-the-pavement sequence that I won’t need the kick-them-in-the-face-until-they-are-out follow-up. I have trained to do this, through IMPACT Personal Safety, which teaches women to use the tools available to us (read, brain and body) to defend our lives.

I propose that, for a young black man in Treyvon’s shoes that night, the reality is quite similar. This is backed up by this ABC report of his girlfriend’s account of what happened.

Martin’s girlfriend, who was on the phone with him in his final moments, told ABC News in an exclusive interview that she has not been interviewed by police, despite Martin telling her he was being followed.

The 16-year-old girl, who is only being identified as DeeDee, recounted the final moments of her conversation with Martin before the line went dead.

“When he saw the man behind him again he said this man is going to do something to him. And then he said this man is still behind him and I said run,” she said.

Phone records obtained by ABC News show that the girl called Martin at 7:12 p.m., five minutes before police arrived, and remained on the phone with Martin until moments before he was shot.

If Treyvon Martin responded to Zimmerman’s following and threats by defending himself in a non-lethal manner, he should be the one protected by the “Stand Your Ground” law. The creepy older guy who was following him and pulled a gun for some unknown reason (What was it that Zimmerman wanted him to do? Magically teleport away?) should be brought up on charges. Period.

And then we need to have a serious conversation about why it is that black boys and women in this country can’t walk to the corner store without looking over our shoulders and considering whether our attackers will be able to use “self-defense” to get off as they attack our character.

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By Mama Paloma, 19/03/2012 22:48

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As anyone online or watching the news knows, the recent killing of Treyvon Martin has sparked all kinds of conversation. I have been a part of that conversation, in other fora. As I explained in my MLK Day post, I strongly believe that our failure, as a country, to acknowledge the very real legacies of slavery costs each and every one of us dearly. In the TED video I shared with my last post post, Brené Brown makes a connection between our fear of vulnerability and avoidance of Shame. I write Shame-with-a-capital-S because the Shame of our history is more than an idea or an emotion. It is an entity that acts in our lives, to keep us from the kind of accountability that could allow trust and connection. It is an entity that convinces a man he was defending himself and a police department that they are acting correctly and without prejudice even as the world looks on in horror and disbelief. Ironically, Shame is what keeps us standing naked and shamed even as we (and by ‘we’ I mean us White folks) pretend – like the Emperor in the fable – that we are wearing the finest clothes.

But, as I have said before, I digress. This blog is about me as a person/mom. It’s about that part of my person that is so tied up in my mom-ness that you can’t separate it out. Like chocolate syrup in milk, it sweetens and colors and permanently changes every bit of who I am.

And as a mom, Treyvon has me broken. If you’ve read my blog over the past few years, you will know of Jonathan – dear friend from High School – and Tim – courageous colleague, both of whose mothers I have connected with in a special way following their deaths and pray for on Mondays and Tuesdays, respectively. You will know how I added Troy Davis‘ mother to this ritual of prayer. She got Wednesdays, the day her son was executed.

I have come to have a special sensitivity for mothers who have lost sons – had them taken too soon by the cruelty and injustice of the world.

And now, sadly, Thursdays have their mother. Unlike the other moms in my prayers, Treyvon Martin’s mother Sybrina Fulton should not have had to see this coming. Jonathan and Tim both traveled the world, witnessed horrible atrocities, courted death as they tried to help others. Troy Davis had, justly or not, been sentenced to death years before. Their mothers had to have prepared themselves, steeled for the possible phone call, let go bit-by-bit as we do when our children grow up and go out in the world.

Sybrina didn’t get to to that preparation, that incremental letting go. Her son was still (apologies to all of the teenage boys who believe they are almost men) a baby. He had gone out for candy.  It is inconceivable, really, that such an errand could end up with multiple 911 calls and a shot to the chest.

At the same time, as I write this, I am fully aware that this is not inconceivable. It is to me because I am the white mother of a white boy. While I can imagine the gut-wrenching loss of my child, I cannot understand the particular steeling and letting go that mothers ‘of color’ in this country must do each day. For our streets are not safe for brown boys, and not even mostly because of gangs and thuggery but because brown boys are seen as inherently dangerous. It is considered reasonable for a police officer or self-appointed keeper of the ‘peace’ or shop owner or neighbor to feel threatened by the mere presence of a male person with brown skin who is more than 5 feet tall.

I am talking about mothers because I am a mother. This week, I was also touched when a former schoolmate, who recently adopted an African-American boy, shared his budding worry for his son in the future…that the racism in this country could take his child, too.

This reality has me very, very angry.

We can’t let this continue. In the same week that Treyvon was stolen from his family, a photo of a “Don’t re-nig in 2012″ bumper sticker made the rounds. Racism is alive and strong in America and it is killing our children. Those under its spell don’t even see the problem – what’s one less youth on the streets? Those not under its spell are too often controlled by Shame that lets us say “Wow, that guy is racist” without owning our own complicity in a system that lets an adult man shoot an unarmed kid and claim self-defense.

I don’t know how to stop it other than to speak up, to say I will face the Shame, to commit to look at and dismantle and learn how to shoulder that legacy.

And I will pray for this mother who has lost so much, and yet maintains such composure and empathy in this video for the father of her son’s killer, that she will see justice served and see her son’s death the catalyst for change that makes other boys, other mothers’ sons, safer when they head out for some snacks on a late Winter’s night.

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By Mama Paloma, 18/03/2012 23:24

“Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.” –Brené Brown

The past few weeks, I have had several opportunities to shine and stand up and get-it-done. And I’ve felt shitty about each and every one. I can so relate to her ‘vulnerability hangover.’

Vulnerability feels, well, vulnerable and Shame loves to step in at those moments…showing me where I’m not the best or the brightest. Yet, something keeps me going, putting myself out there, setting myself up for yet another not-quite, almost, could-have-been-awesome.

I am so glad that I’m not the only one who faces Shame and stays in the arena.

Listening to Shame

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By Mama Paloma, 20/02/2012 22:43

I am a girl with one or three too many things on her plate. Nah, that’s not the right metaphor. It’s really more like I am a girl making her way across a sea of responsibilities, hopes and dreams, projects, parenting, dilemmas, and opportunities.

Some days, like today, the swells are high and threaten to swamp my little ship.

Because I have been working way to much and way too hard lately, have been struggling health-wise–never quite getting over that cold, and because my one resolution for 2012 was to have more down time, I had planned to take the day off, with my son whose preschool was closed for President’s Day, and putter around. His little room has been needing some attention and it seemed like a good time to do a little shopping, a little organizing, and a lot of playing.

You can tell, of course, that I don’t shop often. I had no idea that IKEA would be a mob scene at 9:30 on a Monday morning. I had thought that we would go, have a little breakfast and AJ would gleefully play in their ‘ball pit’ (his term) while I picked up a couple of things and we’d be home before noon, having done the week’s grocery shopping as well. I’d get his room organized and then do some work while he napped.

I had no idea that they serve breakfast for free on Monday mornings and, given the holiday, entire families would be lined up to snag this deal. But we hadn’t eaten and had nothing else to do so we stood in line and got our complimentary 99 cent portion of eggs and potatoes. Seriously. Several hundred people spent about a half hour in line waiting for what they likely wouldn’t choose to pay under a dollar for the rest of the time.

But I digress. Suffice it to say, we didn’t get home until 2 in the afternoon and were both fried from the over-stimulation of the crowds and florescent lighting. By this time, I was pretty stressed.

Among the extra bits on my plate this week is a photo book that was meant to be done by someone else but that needs to be final by the end of this week (to be printed for events in March) so, if it’s going to happen, I am going to do it. I am actually excited about doing it but it will require a certain amount of focus and today was meant to be a day I could do that. As our day wore on, about fifteen other things that I really need to do tomorrow also cropped up in my mind.

The swell built, each wave of anxiety topping the one before. How should I lay the book out? What if I can’t get the fonts right? When will I go through my rolodex and personally invite people to that event? When will I make sure my health insurance went through? Can’t forget to sort out the emergency contact card and extra booster seat for AJ’s new babysitter. How am I going to double my practice as I need to? I couldn’t think of what to do next or how to do it. I became short with AJ. I realized that this day off was feeling pretty out of control.

So, I changed tactics.

Shutting out the fear inspired by storm in my head, I focused on one thing. I put together the small IKEA shelf/bin thingy I had picked up for AJ’s room (only having to take apart and re-do it in two places), sorted through his toys, and put it all back together. This took the rest of the day and evening, with AJ watching that penguin surfing movie yet another time while I soldiered on. But, rather than becoming more anxious about everything else I wasn’t doing, I became more calm. Like meditation, the focus of sorting and cleaning and purging and organizing allowed the rest of my mind to clear.

After a while, I noticed little breezes of ideas flitting through here and there. By the time AJ finally went to bed, my plan of action (and there will be action!) for tomorrow was clear and in place.

And, while I can’t say that all of it will get done, what is done will be done with more grace and clarity than it would have had I not taken the afternoon to ride out my storm.

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By Mama Paloma, 02/01/2012 14:21

This year is starting off with a sigh. While I want to feel inspired, motivated, optimistic, I  am actually more on the tired and discouraged side of the spectrum. I have reflected, envisioned, sought support, worked my ass off, meditated–the works–and I just seem to be stuck in this place of almost-there.

I had hoped to clear a number of things from my plate in 2011. Have some resolution (and regular, agreed-upon child support) with AJ’s dad, have my nonprofit work sustainable and compensated, have something to show for the first four decades of my life. I even planned some special things…a trip for my birthday, a mini-vacation to end the year. In spite of my best efforts, it’s all fizzled, or just failed to progress. Nothing is horrible, but nothing is great either.

I have tried so hard. I am ready for great. I need a little bit right now.

But instead, at this moment, I am sitting in my living room with a half-undressed tree that may spontaneously combust at any moment, ornament boxes piled around, suitcase unpacked, my son methodically taking receipts and such I have put in a bag for shredding out of said bag and spreading them around the rest of the mess.

I want to fight this feeling…to push through and clean up and put on a shiny smile. Today, though, it seems important somehow to sit here in it, to acknowledge the shit I  stand up to each and every day–the effort of holding at bay the chaos and the loss and the fatigue and the loneliness that lurk, waiting to wash over and swamp my little life raft. So, for this moment, I am letting it be.

I know it won’t look so bleak tomorrow. I will wake up and get up and do what needs to be done to inch my life forward. I will find meaning and inspiration and humor and joy again. But, right now, it’s all pretty pathetic and lame and sad and it’s real and it’s really OK.

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By Mama Paloma, 21/09/2011 10:28

Today I am thinking about another mom and my heart is heavy. I don’t know her or her story. I do know that, if all goes as planned, she will lose her son tonight.

I don’t know the facts of the situation, other than what I have read in this summary. I do know that our justice system provides us neither safety nor justice and I believe strongly that the continuation practice of executing prisoners takes away from us all as the above article states.

But it should also bring deep self-probing to us as a country, forcing us to ask ourselves agonizing questions: How can our system of justice be comfortable executing a man despite such substantive doubts as to his guilt? How can our country possibly justify taking an unarmed, captive human being, and killing that human being? Who are we as a people if we, sanctioned by the state, intentionally and with premeditation wrack a family with grief?

This is something I have been concerned about for ages…and will continue to try to find ways to address. But this post isn’t ultimately about whether or not we should have the death penalty or whether or not Troy Davis is guilty. (Please take those discussions elsewhere.)

It’s about a mother. Troy Davis’ mom. She is losing her son. My heart is with her.

Almost three years ago, another mother lost her son. I did know her, I knew her son Jonathan and a bit of her story–that she had lost her older son Stephen fifteen years before. At my friend/her son’s funeral she shared what had helped her most when Stephen died. She said one friend had come up to her and said that he was going to pray for her and her husband every Monday, that he would keep on praying until they asked him to stop. She said he kept that promise for many years, until he himself passed. Every once in a while they would receive a postcard or note with a message to the effect of “Today is Monday and I am praying for you.” She said it had been sustaining to know that someone was not forgetting, that someone was with them in their ongoing loss, that someone was praying on her behalf when she couldn’t do it herself.

That day, I told Jonathan’s mom that I would take Mondays and, since then, every Monday, I find myself thinking of his parents and, when I put AJ to bed, I pray “for Uncle Jonathan’s mommy and daddy because they miss him very much.” This has led to some amazing conversations about how much parents love their children and about missing people and even about death.

Then, a few months ago, another friend died–this one was killed in Libya while covering the impact of war on civilians. That night, I found myself thinking of his mom, about my own ongoing struggle with the impossible-ness of being a mother and loving and letting go. A few weeks later, on a Tuesday, I met Tim’s mom at his memorial in New York. We had a surprisingly intimate conversation in which I shared about Jonathan’s mother’s experience. I told her that his parents have my Monday, so she would have Tuesday. Now, on Tuesday, we pray for Tim’s mommy and daddy and this leads to conversations about New York and how much Addison missed me when I traveled there without him and how fighting can really hurt people and how much parents love their children and about missing people and about death

So, I guess it isn’t surprising that, today, as I read news accounts of Troy Davis’ scheduled death, I am thinking of his mother. She will probably never know this (Perhaps will feel it, somehow?), but from now on she has my Wednesdays. I wonder what kind of conversations this will spark.

Can I talk about the death penalty with a preschooler? I don’t know…but I do hope that, in sharing these prayers with my son he will grow to be more compassionate, to value other’s lives, to know deep in his bones how much he is loved, and to hold that love in the same sacred place that holds my prayers for these other mothers.