Reflections on Bin Laden's Death

I was about to go to bed. I was in my pajamas, sitting in front of my computer screen, checking email and social networking sites before shutting everything off for the night.

The first thing I saw was a Facebook status that said. “I don't believe their claims.” I didn't know what that meant. It felt like I had dropped in in the middle of a conversation.

Then, I saw a status that said, “CNN has the news, but none of the world news sites have it.”

That made me curious. My journalist's nose is as sharp as a hound and as relentless as a cat pursuing a mouse. I had to know, so I clicked on CNN's website and saw the headline, “Osama Bin Laden Dead.”

I know those American news sites. Sometimes they jump the gun, so I thought I'd better google what the world was saying. I went to the BBC and I went to the CBC and they confirmed it. I clicked the live feed from CBC News just as they cut to Barack Obama giving a live address to the nation. It was around 11:30 pm, an odd time of day for a president to be giving an address.

So, I sat there, in my pajamas, my mouth agape, my heart racing, my mind wondering if I was having a weird dream that would leave me scratching my head come morning. No. This was real. This wasn't speculation. The president gave a succinct, eloquent and hopeful speech while footage in the right hand corner of the screen showed a tumult of people gathering on the White House lawn screaming, cheering and waving flags.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Could it be? They got the monster? Look at my American neighbours. Look at them in Washington DC. Look at them in New York City. Look at them in the stadium in Philly. In ten years, I have not seen that look they used to have before those planes struck the towers. There it is! There's that look! Call it hope or pride or self confidence. Despite all of their brave words and rhetoric, I had not seen THAT look on the faces of Americans since September 10, 2001.

I also saw that nobody was asking if they were Republicans or Democrats. Everyone was just converging together in a large, impromptu flash mob, celebrating that the one that got away... didn't. It took ten years, but justice was done.

Flash back ten years. Where was I, the Canadian, just before 9 o'clock in the morning on September 11, 2001? I know exactly where I was. I was sitting on my sofa watching TV on the Global Television Network. I was watching 100 Huntley Street with Lorna Dueck and I think the other host was David Mainse' son.

Lorna said, “The TV station is cutting our feed and going live to New York City. Something is happening there.”

I saw one of the towers in the World Trade Centre on fire and people were speculating that there had been a terrible airplane accident. As they were talking, I watched, on a live feed, as a second plane came into view and smashed into the second tower. I remember screaming that this could not be an accident. I watched for a few more minutes, but I felt so horrified that I suddenly didn't want to be alone, so I ran down the stairs to the street where people were milling about, oblivious and shopping. I said, “Turn on your radios. There's been a terrorist attack in New York. The twin towers are burning.”

I hurried over to my brother Howie's house. We sat together and somberly watched the events unfold. He told me that another plane had hit the Pentagon and then we learned that another plane had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania.

I bawled my face off watching people leaping to their deaths, choosing to die that way rather than burning to death. Oh what a great choice that was! Burn or hit the pavement from a hundred floors up. It was horrific to know that these were real people with real lives dying in absolute terror and their families would be left to find them, grieve for them and live without them.

I was very proud of Gander, Newfoundland for taking care of passengers who were stranded when all flights were grounded. We were doing our part. Canadians gathered, 100 000 strong to support America at Parliament Hill and brought the US ambassador to grateful tears as he said, “Truly. You are our best friend.”

My children were teenagers. Anthony was 16 and Kendra was 15 at the time. Tristan (my best friend's son) was 13. I remember clearly that they sat down with us that night. They were solemn and scared and full of questions. My son, Anthony, asked me “Mom. Is this the end of the world?” Those terrorists had managed to terrorize, not only the poor victims and their families in those towers, not only the Americans, but they had managed to terrorize my children too! We were all afraid.

Twenty-four Canadians died in those attacks. Millions more were paralyzed with grief and fear for our American friends, for ourselves and for freedom and democracy itself. It felt like a death knell for life as we knew it.

Many fellow Christians say I shouldn't rejoice that a person has died. Usually, I would agree. It is at the core of my belief system that I hold human life with the highest respect. I believe we are all created by God for a purpose and we choose to fulfill that purpose or not. I don't dance for joy when human beings die, not even when they were in the wrong.

Still, I find jubilation in my heart. If I had been close enough to Ground Zero or Washington, I could picture myself running out into the street, singing and dancing as if I had just been released from a prison, of sorts. The man who tried to rob the free world of security, hope, faith and joy... is dead.

Should I grieve for the man who made my children tremble? If he had stood before me, I would have killed him with my bare hands. Not out of hatred, but out of the fiercest maternal instinct imaginable. This was not vengeance in the sense of killing the person you hate. This was justice. This was necessary. This was death to the figurehead for tyranny and the resurrection of all that is good and decent about America and the civilized nations of the world.

His death was announced on the same day that Adolph Hitler's death was announced, 66 years later.

This is the closest that most of us will get to knowing how the allied nations felt on VE Day, when everyone ran out to the streets and cheered and complete strangers kissed each other for joy.

I still find myself very emotional. This man left a traumatic bruise on the souls of so many of us. He relished the fear he caused. He rejoiced in the deaths of civilians... even those who follow Islam. Hello! He would kill anyone, even his own people. This man represented the most heinous depravity known to the human race.

So, no. I'm not saying I rejoice that a person died, and yet I do rejoice that he is gone. His ideology will try to live on and regroup. I have no delusions that our job is done, but I don't apologize for feeling relief, joy and hope now that their figurehead is standing before God, trembling the way he made my children tremble. I don't think he's so cocky today. I suppose he has figured out that there are no virgins waiting for him.

I'm thankful to God and to the American president, the secret service, the soldiers who carried this out. I'm sure the story, as it unfolds, will become legendary.

May the families of the victims find some closure. May the military families who have lost loved ones in battle know that their sacrifice was not in vain. May the American people begin to heal the rifts caused by fear and the reactions of government officials and civilians to it.

Enjoy this moment, America. Embrace your fellow citizens regardless of their political persuasion. This is not a partisan victory. It is a victory for every single one of you. You can battle out your politics tomorrow. Not today. Not the day you got to shout, “Ding! Dong! The witch is dead!”

What do I feel like doing now? I want to click on an old Elton John song. “I'm still standing better than I ever did... Looking like a true survivor... feeling like a little kid... I'm still standing... yeah yeah yeah...”

No Runts In The Litter

I am not afraid to say that I have been having dreams and visions since I was in kindergarten. I remember the first one happening while I was on the kindergarten bus being transported to Walter Zadow Public School. I didn’t know it was a vision then, but I had the same vision on numerous occasions and, being a kid, didn’t realize what I was seeing.

That being said, I still don’t always know what I’m seeing, but I’m getting better at it. I’m getting better at approaching the symbols in my dreams and the colours and the messages from God in them and I usually get the interpretation fairly quickly. Sometimes not, but we’re working on it. I am NOT a psychic or a medium. I can’t talk to your dead auntie or pick out your lottery numbers, but I get dreams and visions from God on a regular enough basis to pay attention. I have dreamed at least six houses that I lived in six months or more before the fact. I know that there’s something to it and I love that God talks to us today if we’re willing to tune the radio to His station. His station is playing all the time just like the radio stations are always playing in your town, but you don’t hear today’s top ten list on Bob FM unless you put the dial there, do you? Well… I think you get the drift.

So last weekend, at the start of my holidays, I went to a conference that changed my life because I got healed of some major ailments there. This was stuff that had been plaguing me for a long time. I believe the healing is ongoing as I keep noticing stuff changing in my body and I can’t thank God enough. I don’t like diseases and I’ve spent enough of my life in hospitals to be sick to death of them, so if I can get rid of sickness, good riddance to it!

Anyway, I was at the conference and I was enjoying the music. I was worshipping. I was singing. I sat back and closed my eyes to just appreciate the sound of hundreds of voices all singing in harmony. It was a beautiful sound.

As I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, all of a sudden, the movie screen that I sometimes get opened up in front of me and there came a vision. It was a strange one. It made me wrinkle my forehead and go, ‘what’?

I saw an animal lying on its side. I don’t know what kind of animal it was. It could have been a dog or it could have been a pig. I know it couldn’t be a cow or a horse because they don’t lie down to feed their young.

This animal’s teats were full of milk. Like, the mama whazzit was ready to feed her litter of babies. She was sooooo full of milk and then, in came the babies and in the vision, it was like I was one of the babies. I know that’s weird, but it will make sense.

I did what I always do. “What’s that?” I asked. I heard God’s voice quite clearly saying, “There are no runts in my litter.”

It made me laugh. Like… what? What are you talking about? But, I come from the country. I do understand the way of litters. Dog litters. Cat litters. Pig litters. There is always a runt on the farm. You know what a runt is. It’s that one poor little thing that the other fat puppies/kitties/piglets shove out of the way because they’re bigger and weigh more. They get the best of the milk from the mother and the runt is left with the leftovers, the dregs, and is usually small and skinny and in real danger of dying if it doesn’t get enough food. Sometimes an animal mother will even abandon the runt.

So, God says. “There are no runts.” And in my vision, it was true. There was enough milk in that mama for all her brood. Plenty. Enough milk to give them all fat full little bellies and to make them very happy little babies.

I smiled. This was nice to know, but God spoke again and said, “You think you’re the runt.”

Huh? No! No! I don’t think that!

Yes. You do. You always reason away why I’ll heal and help every other kid in my kingdom… except you. You think I love the others more. You think I don’t have enough blessings to go around, so you’ll ‘sacrifice’ and settle for whatever you can get.

Oh-oh. I think I just got told off… it was kind even so. It wasn’t a mean scolding. Just… well… I needed to hear it. I realized that it was absolutely true. I believed God could help me. I believed God could heal me. I just didn’t think I was all that important in the ‘litter’… in the pecking order. Let Him heal some great person who is destined to change the world and I’ll just be happy sitting here in pain and suffering and waiting for Heaven and the afterlife.

You know what? That didn’t make God happy. He wasn’t interested in my willingness to sacrifice my health and wellbeing for the bigger puppies in the litter. In the vision I had, it was like he was shoving me toward the milk. He was telling me to go and get it. He was telling me there’s plenty for everyone and He is not running out. So, stop going hungry and get in there and get what you need!

“Ok. I’m so sorry for thinking like that, God. You are the best Father and You always provide the best for your children.”

Even you?

Even me.

I got healed that night of the following list of ailments:  hiatus hernia is gone; gastrointestinal reflux disease is gone; asthma is nearly completely gone - I’m having a little squeak here and there, but my friends know how often that thing almost killed me and I’m not wheezing or taking meds all the time; my digestive issues are gone. Everything is working the way it’s supposed to. No more pain. I was in so much pain in the past few months that I was crying and desperate and missing work and could hardly eat. I would fast for fear of the pain. The pain has left the building. I’m eating normally again.

So, there are no runts in the litter after all. If God will help me, then I know He will help you, so stop thinking your problems aren’t important to Him or that He’ll help everybody else… except you. His love for His children is measureless. You are loved by Him. Your problems and all the circumstances facing you are not God being angry with you or wanting to harm you. He wants to help you. Just… tell Him yes, will you? He was waiting for me to say yes and really mean it and accept that I was truly loved and not just tolerated by Him. He loves me and… even more… He likes me.

I’m not saying we don’t have stuff in our lives that needs changing. We all sport attitudes or have issues that we would like help with, but that’s the thing. He wants to help.

After what happened to me last weekend, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care who likes it or who doesn’t. I don’t care if people even laugh at me. I’m running in full throttle like a fat little greedy puppy and I… want… the… milk!!! There are NO RUNTS in God’s litter!

A Response to Stephen Hawking

Stephen Hawking says that we don’t need God anymore. He can speak for himself. God knows how much I need to believe in a being that is higher than myself. If I’m it. If I’m all there is, that’s a sad statement. I wouldn’t even call that evolution. I would call it devolution.

No. I’m not dissing myself. I’m not a loser or a ne’er do well, but I’m certainly not the picture of perfection. If I’m it, evolution has been a failed experiment indeed.

I know Mr. Hawking is a brilliant scientist. He has studied atoms and quantum physics and all of those high things that show us how the world works. Still, knowledge is one thing. Wisdom is another and this brilliant brilliant scientist has a serious lack of wisdom going on. I mean, he’s going on and on about how we have to go and settle other planets if we want to survive as a species and yet, we mustn’t contact alien life forms or we’re in big trouble.

This guy wants to tell me whether I need God or not? Sorry, Stephen. Your knowledge has puffed you up, as knowledge without wisdom always does. You go on worshipping science as that is your religion and I’ll go on worshipping God who has forgotten more about science than you know.

And according to Frances Collins, another brilliant scientist and the man who unlocked the human genome, creation does not negate the existence of God, but illustrates and strongly suggests that He is there. And since I don’t see Frances in the press uttering all kinds of ludicrous things about alien life forms and real life Star Trek expeditions, I think I will get my science from him and not you.

Oh I know. The politically correct police are going to lambaste me now for thinking I’m persecuting a man in a wheelchair. That’s not the issue here. Stephen Hawking has made a name for himself in the scientific community for being one of the most gifted scientists in the world, but he has had a few forays into the press that indicate his stability may be in question and this man is presuming to tell the whole world what to believe.

What’s next, Stephen? Should we stop being kind to each other as we don’t need morality and human decency anymore? Should these things go the way of the dodo bird? Should we stop caring for those less fortunate in society (such as people in wheelchairs) for, if there is no God, there is no need to obey a moral code and we can do as we please.

Darwin noticed a huge flaw in his theory of natural selection. He said that he observed that a dog would go by an ailing cat every day and would lick it and exhibit kindness toward the cat. He said that if natural selection were correct, that animals would have no capacity for kindness, but would simply be competing with each other without restraint in order for the fittest and best to survive. (I paraphrased, but that’s what he was saying.)

You have been staring at test tubes and microscopes for too long. You aren’t looking at humanity and the biggest evidence of God that there is. Human beings are born with the knowledge that there is a right and there is a wrong. They have some kind of leaning toward a moral code of some kind. That would not be present in any way, shape or form if we were all just an accidental mound of goop, if our existence were just nature’s way of keeping meat fresh. We would be killing each other at will. We would be stealing each other’s stuff with no restraint. No law. Taking what we want, for we are living out the theory of ‘survival of the fittest’.

It doesn’t happen that way, though. Does it, Stephen Hawking? Even a dog will nurse a cat’s young. Dolphins have rescued human beings in the ocean from sharks or from drowning. There is Darwin’s kind dog, licking the cat every time it walks by.

The same God who initiated the big bang; the same God who designed all of the universe we enjoy; that same God shows His existence so clearly and so often, and yet brilliant scientists and fools refuse to see it. He couldn’t illustrate His existence any clearer to me, the simple writer who dares to look for Him.

Of course, you could not admit to God’s existence, could you, Stephen? That would suggest that there was someone greater than you. Worship of oneself is foolish because we’re here today and we’re gone tomorrow. We make very weak and paltry gods.

I haven’t even bothered to bring up Dawkins and Hitchens here as I’m only dealing with Stephen Hawking’s words to the press yesterday. I have the same argument for the claims of those men. Yes. I respect them as brilliant scientists and excellent journalists, but I do not draw their conclusions from the evidence that they seem to twist and manipulate at will. I hate that the young are drawn to their arguments. Of course they are. The young do not have the capacity to understand when they’ve been duped.

So, you can go ahead, Stephen, and believe in nothing. Believe that all of this just happened by accident. I can’t even throw two slices of bread, a butter knife and an open jar of peanut butter around and get a sandwich, but you can believe that all of the universe was random.

Believe what you want, Mr. Stephen Hawking. Believe in disbelief. Spend your whole life examining what God created, missing the forest for the trees. Frankly, I don’t have enough faith to believe in nothing. 

The Enchanted Island

I had a wonderful time with the kids watching the fireworks competition at the park beside the Casino de Lac Leamy on Saturday night. Four countries were showcased in the grand finale, the culmination of three weeks worth of entries from various nations around the world.

We watched breath-taking displays from China, Portugal, The United States and Germany. Germany, set to the tune of Amazing Grace, won the crown this year.

As we walked back from the beach toward the park, extolling the wonder of the pyrotechnics we had just witnessed, a disco band took the stage and the kids ended up dancing and jumping around to tunes that were cheesy when I heard them the first time, in 1978. Still, they were having pure, unabashed fun without the aid of alcohol or narcotics and they seemed to marvel at the fact that this was possible and that they were having more fun than those vices afford without the headache or empty wallet the next morning.

So, it was fun to see them having fun. If “Disco Inferno” taught them that valuable lesson, I will have to concede… finally… begrudgingly… that disco had a purpose.

We ate hot dogs that cost a buck (oh yeah! Thanks for not gouging us!) and helped locate the owner of a set of lost keys that we found under the picnic table where we were eating.

And then, it was time to go to… The Enchanted Island.

We were beside the casino, its superfluous row of fountains spewing out enough water to hydrate The Congo, lights changing the water purple, pink, red and yellow. Limousines pulled in to the grounds. We saw Porsches. We saw Bentleys. We saw any number of cars that cost more than the entire year’s budget for the homeless shelter. Valets waited on these people like they were royalty and that is part of the whole fairy tale, isn’t it?

The kids wanted to experience the casino. I didn’t want to go that badly, but being there would keep them from doing something foolish with their money and would also make sure they could get home as they didn’t seem to think ahead enough to figure out that transit stops at midnight. Like Cinderella’s coachmen, they turn back into mice… or something like that.

So, we went in and they tried slot machines and poker machines and the bells chimed and the buzzers whizzed and the lights blinked and it was all very awesome-looking and mesmerizing at first. Here we were on The Enchanted Island where money floats in the people’s heads like the dance of the sugarplum fairy. And like the sugarplums, the money is a dream too.

We saw reams of money coming out of the wallets of desperate gamblers thinking that maybe if they play one more time, this will be the big one. Another group of singers were murdering ‘The Beatles’, smiling even though people were gambling all around them and paying them absolutely no attention.

Then, after a little time passed by, my daughter, in her wisdom, pipes up. “This is boring, isn’t it? How do people do this every day?”

Well, my Darling, it’s the enchanted island. It seems magical. It seems like another world. It promises big things, but you walk out feeling small and when the spell wears off, and you go back to sweeping the cinders, you just feel like a fool.

I couldn’t have given them a better lesson in life if I tried. They came. They saw. We left a little less rich, but so much wiser.

False hope. You liar. You hold so many people in your clutches and they are so taken with the lights and the bells and the magic that they don’t see the dead men’s bones strewn about the entrance to your lair. Broken families. Weeping souls. You leave nothing but a bitter taste and destruction in your wake.

Turn off the music, Sweetheart, and strip off that gaudy makeup. You’re wasting your efforts on me.

Letter to the Lost Generation - The Love Rant

Dear Lost Generation,

I apologize on behalf of my generation. We have failed you miserably.

When I was young, love was patient and kind. Now, love is nothing more than kissing, groping and bruising each other with little or no clothing on MTV music videos. It’s who does who and how sexy you look and then it’s over as quickly as a summer storm.

When I was young, love was not selfish and didn’t insist on its own way. It sacrificed for the greater good, for the wellbeing of others. Now, love is money and how much a person spent to buy that ring/car/video game/insert shallow material product here.

When I was young, a movie told us that love meant never having to say you’re sorry. We already knew better than that. We knew that love means saying sorry… often. It also means saying “Forgive me” AND “I forgive you.”

When I was young, love was not arrogant or puffed up. It humbly served, happy to do so because hey, when you love someone, you want to serve that person and do wonderful things for their benefit. Now, love means coming around and being all sweet and wonderful… until you get sex. Then it turns off like a tap. It’s instant like microwave food and then cools off just as quickly.

When I was young, love would never fail. It would sail rough seas. It would even argue sometimes. It would get rough, but in the end, when the dust settled, love was still there. Now, it’s cheap, “Made in Taiwan” plastic, but don’t worry. There will be another season of The Bachelor in a few months.

When I was young, love bore all things, believed all things and endured all things. We believed in those we loved. We knew they weren’t perfect, but we gave them the dignity and respect they deserved and we naturally knew that was the right thing to do when you love someone. Now, love lasts five minutes and after it’s over, you murder the character of the one you ‘loved’ on Facebook or, if you’re lucky enough to get interviewed, you do it on Dr. Phil.

When I was young, there was no greater love than to lay down your life for a friend. Now, we don’t love our friends enough to lay down carpeting for them or lend them a hand or even a buck. It’s all me me me and if you fall down, I’ll step over you, “Friend”, and be on my way.

When I was young, God was love. We were grateful for sunrises and sunsets and trees and flowers and beautiful things in creation. Even those who were a little naughty among us – you know, that drank a little too much or got into mischief, even those ones would acknowledge and thank God for their daily food and knew He was loving. Now, God isn’t love. He isn’t even there. Apparently, all this stuff happened as a weird, ridiculously impossible accident and, due to Christopher Hitchens’ legitimately negative experiences with religious people and politics, not only is God not love, He isn’t even great.

When I was young, love conquered all and covered a multitude of sins. The person we loved might be an utter jerk, but they were our utter jerk and they were accepted, fed, cared for solely on the basis of the fact that we loved them and could overlook a few faults. Now, love is for those who can afford Botox and Jenny Craig’s diet plan. One ounce or wrinkle this way or that way, and the umpires on America’s Top Whatever scream, “Yooooooooou’re out!”

When I was young, love was a commandment. Love God with all your heart and love your neighbour as yourself. Sometimes the love was sappy and huggy and sometimes it was a kick in the pants to set you back on the straight and narrow, but either way, it made you a better person. It was a prescription to ward off heart-sickness and loneliness. It meant laughter and squabbles and having to buy an extra box of popsicles so that every kid in your back yard (who are all these kids playing with mine anyway?) got one. It meant sometimes having to have the kid on your ball team who couldn’t hit the ball worth a darn. It meant sharing and lending. It meant helping to build the neighbour’s barn when it burned. It meant making a casserole for the neighbour who just had a baby or lost her husband.

Yes. Lost Generation. These things really existed. They aren’t myths like Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster.

Of all the things that have gone extinct, I think I miss real love the most. It wasn’t some weak, flighty, passing craze. It was rough, tough, gritty and sweet. It’s what we need to stop all these kids from shooting up their classmates, doing drugs and committing suicide. It’s a companion to faith and hope, which we forgot to dole out to this generation too. We threw those things out when we decided our parents’ way of doing things wasn’t cool.

Can we get it back? You betcha. And I look forward to seeing a new generation of dissatisfied youngsters rising up to say, “Enough of this crap! I want something real!” Enough of this fluffy froufrou "love". The tingly feelings are great and they’re an expression of love, but real love starts on the days when those feelings aren’t there. The feelings come and go. They go up and down. They depend on moods and stress and hormones. They can wax and wane like the moon.

Love is a decision. Love is an act of your will. It rides out the low tide knowing that the high tide will return.

If we want it back. If we want the real love that goes the distance, it will cost us nothing and it will cost us everything.

How do we get it back? It starts off small. An act of kindness here. A good word there. A pat on the back. A smile. A prayer. The setting aside of grudges. Letting somebody else have a turn. Taking a second to stop and think that the guy who just cut you off on the highway might have just lost his job or received news that his wife's got cancer. Just cutting each other some slack instead of flipping the bird or letting the f bomb fly every time there's the slightest irritation.

It’s not that simple, you say. I say. Oh yes it is. The sooner we realize that each of us are not all by ourselves living in individual little bubbles, the sooner we can go back and find where we dropped the axe head. It will come floating right up to the surface of the water where we can scoop it up and start back where we made the mistake of throwing love away in the first place.

Will we do it?

I hope. Oh… do I hope!