matching tracksuits

fun in threes, sometimes fours

Opportunity

Rarely do such stark opportunities emerge to rise to one’s professed principles or to sink to rank hypocrisy as this moment for Republicans. What will it be? Will they prove themselves to be a party of principle or a party interested only in gathering unto itself increasing political power? Will they, now that the shoe is on the other foot, treat Democrats as they demanded they be treated in 2016?

That’s the real irony of this looming crisis: Republicans wrap themselves in the pages of the Bible, proclaiming themselves to be the vanguard of all that’s decent — according to their definition of the term, which is always couched in religious ideals. But when it comes down to it, they are no more interested in principles or basic decency than your average thug.

In Armando Iannucci’s brilliant The Death of Stalin, there’s a telling scene in which Lavrentiy Beria, facing his own doom, demands to be treated in accordance with the law and then begs for mercy. In his brutal career, he faced such pleas countless times, I’m sure, and he always responded with barbarity and cruelty. When he lost power, he begged for just that which he would not give to others.

Lindsey Graham, Mitch McConnell, Marco Rubio, and Ted Cruz are on record:

So when Mitch McConnell said “President Trump’s nominee will receive a vote on the floor of the United States Senate,” he showed himself to be perhaps the best, clearest example of a hypocrite that one could imagine. It’s hard to envision a more clear-cut case of blatant, power-grabbing hypocrisy than what we’re witnessing now in the Republican party.

Any Congressional Republicans who go along with this show their constituency that they are not individuals of their words, that they are the basest liars, that they should not be entrusted with any power, and on the basis of principle alone, their Republican constituents should vote them out.

Will this happen? Of course not. Why won’t Republicans do this? Because the Republican party no longer exists. It is a party of only one principle, and that’s power. Republican states are no longer red states (Isn’t it ironic that the color for Republicans is the color associated with communism? Isn’t it ironic how cozy our current Republican president is with the Russian leader trying desperately to reconstitute Soviet power?); they are orange states, to match the hue of their lord and savior.

Before and After

Volleyball Thursday

At the Swing

For a few years there, you could count on pictures down at the swing and hammocks. It was such a regular occurrence that I pretty much stopped taking pictures down there. How many pictures of your kids swinging do you really need?

Today, we all went down to the swings for a while before dinner. I took some pictures, then gave the camera to the Boy.

He's got a good eye, that little fellow.

Tuesday Playing

K and the Boy spent some time rolling around the neighborhood this evening after dinner. One of the countless things I love about K is her own love of childhood joys.

She was on E's scooter, having the time of her life it appeared.

Afterward, we played a bit of soccer.

The Girl was at volleyball practice, so we had to do something to entertain ourselves.

And of course, we had to have a little down time once it was all said and done.

Rainy Monday

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Sunday Theological Thoughts and a Ride

A Ride

We went for a bike ride this afternoon to our favorite local park. We got an up-close view of a local:

We see them at a distance quite frequently, and they even come into our creek behind our house from time to time, but this is undoubtedly the closest we've ever been to one.

Sunday Theological Thoughts

While in Mass today I noticed an oddity that I'd heard many times but never really thought about: just before the congregation recites the Lord's Prayer, the priest says, "At the Savior's command and formed by divine teaching, we dare to say..."

"Why 'dare'?" I thought. "Doesn't Christianity present God as a father?"

A little research revealed this:

The priest notes what a privilege it is for us to be able to talk to God in this way: "At the Savior's command and formed by divine teaching, we dare to say …" What is it that we dare to say? "Our Father". This is precisely what Jesus calls us to do. It underscores the intimate relationship we now have with God because of Jesus' work of salvation. We share his life because he came to share ours. Through our union in Christ, God has truly become our Father.

Website for Church of St. Vincent DePaul in Singapore

I suppose the argument might be that pre-Jesus, no one would have thought to call God Father. I don't really know. But there's always been something of a thread of fear in most theisms, which seems somewhat unhealthy to say the least.

It's certainly present in the Bible, including this curiosity: "The fear of the Lord leads to life, and whoever has it rests satisfied; he will not be visited by harm" (Proverbs 19:23).

It seems somehow to echo what's said later in Mass, just before going to take communion: "Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed." If God is indeed to be seen as a father-figure, who ever talks to their father that way? If my children said they're not worthy of being in my presence, I would wonder how I'd managed to raise them with such little self-esteem. I don't even know that you could raise children to think that way without emotionally abusing them. I understand the sense of humility, but this just seems to be a little much. I know, I know -- I'm viewing it through a human perspective. That's all any of us have, though, and it seems, honestly, a little like a cop-out. "Who are we to question the ways of God?" covers a multitude of unanswered prayers.

Morning Reading

“The Names”

A poem by Billy Collins for the first anniversary of the 9/11 attacks

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name —
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner —
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

Volleyball Thursday