Punishing women who have abortions

This makes sense—if abortions are illegal. 

You know how you can buy alcohol if you're twenty-one years old? But you can't buy it when you're seventeen years old? If you consume alcohol, from whatever source—your brother's liquor cabinet, the bartender who didn't card you, or that stolen 22 of Pabst Blue Ribbon—you, the drinker, the consumer, are ticketed, fined, penalized. You did the drinking. 

So if you abort your baby, you would also be punished. You killed your baby.

It's true that the abortion industry preys on women. Women aren't educated, some women don't even speak English when they walk into an abortion clinic, and no one there will be willing to show them a quick ultrasound and give them a listen to their baby's heartbeat. 

But if abortion is illegal, we'll all be lifted out of the cloudy haze of bad science and government-funded propaganda. The Supreme Court will acknowledge that life begins at conception, and that's why it will be protected, and abortion will no longer be considered another form of birth control. 

From the article on lifesitenews.com:

The pro-woman, pro-life attitude is also partly due to the fact that the pro-life movement is led by millions of women who had abortions and now deeply regret their decisions, thanks to a change of heart on abortion, or a religious conversion or a simply understanding that they took the life of their own child.

I understand why people are upset over this idea. I mean, post-abortive women are the walking wounded and that wound never complete heals. Confession doesn't bring back a life. It doesn't undo your own abortion if you stop others from aborting a child. The past cannot be changed.

But if abortion is illegal, then having an abortion is breaking a law. Just like buying crack is illegal, and if you have crack, you go to jail.  Even though someone convinced you to try it, you're addicted to it, you're from a broken home, and your rap idols talk about it like it's this glorious thing. Even then, it's illegal. 

Source

A law imposing a punishment on women who abort their babies would not be retroactive. It's currently very legal. There are lots of lies spread to women about abortion—from our court system to our healthcare professionals, to the P.E. teacher in our high school sex education class. Many, many women are victims in this culture. 

But I've known two women who had abortions. Both spoke English, had seen an ultrasound, and knew what an abortion was—that's why they had one. They did not want to have a baby at that time. Were they victims? Hardly. And if we condone fining someone who drives through a red light, how could we not support a punishment for someone killing a child?

So when Donald Trump up and said that “there has to be some form of punishment,” for women getting abortions after a ban is implemented, that actually makes sense. If something is illegal, and you do it, you (the one with the free will) are held responsible. If something is illegal, we know about it, and to avoid it. He's not talking about our present state, with legal abortion, with government-funded abortion. 

If there's no consequence, what stops a woman from killing her child? A cop pulls you over for speeding, but says, “Don't do it again.” He lets you go, no ticket. You blow past the next day, and he reminds you to slow down. He never punishes you and you stop listening. There's no deterrent because there's no consequence. What stops women from having abortions if there's no punishment? 

But now even Trump himself has changed his mind. So if abortion were illegal, and you killed your baby, you would both be victims. Welcome to America. A woman could decide to kill her own baby, then sue the doctor who performed the abortion and get a big fat check. So the baby would be dead, the woman would be rich, and the abortionist would be in jail. All's well that ends well, right? 

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Susan Sarandon and the revolution

In an interview with MSNBC’s Chris Hayes, Susan Sarandon said that if it came down to Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump, she would “see what happens.” The actress said, “Some people feel Donald Trump will bring the revolution immediately if he gets in then things will really, you know explode.” Hayes asked if this isn't “dangerous” thinking, to which Sarandon replies,

The status quo is not working, and I think it’s dangerous to think that we can continue the way we are with the militarized police force, with privatized prisons, with the death penalty, with the low minimum wage, with threats to women’s rights and think that you can’t do something huge to turn that around.

The Washington Post piece “What Susan Sarandon said about Trump was out of this world” is written by Jonathan Capehart, who obviously expects Sarandon to endorse Hillary Clinton if she is the Democratic nominee. We should be able to trust Sarandon to tow the party line, right? She’s won an Academy Award. She's famous. She's in the Rocky Horror Picture Show—a cult classic. (Watching that movie is actually like being in hell. Just say no.)

We’re so starved for authority that we’re shocked when a woman famous for pretending to be someone else doesn’t have integrity. Is someone who advocates killing babies supposed to be trustworthy and predictable?

Capehart argues that even though Clinton is not perfect, “it is monumentally insane to argue that a Trump in the White House would be preferable to a Clinton in the Oval Office.” I get it. I do. I’m no fan of Donald Trump.

However.

Is it not also “monumentally insane” to advocate for women killing their children? For gay marriage? Is it not a monumentally insane moment when a transgender person is sharing a bathroom with my daughter? And we're using these issues as a platform for women's rights? A “genderless” person is referred to as “it” and that's progress? Pronouns have to be invented and this is something that is normal and natural?

A revolution is coming, of that I have no doubt. We don’t have to want Trump in office just because we crave the firework—they’re coming. Cardinal Burke has said that “in our day, our witness to the splendor of the truth about marriage must be limpid and heroic,” and, “We must be ready to suffer, as Christians have suffered down the ages, to honor and foster Holy Matrimony.”

There is no doubt that Trump would be divisive—as would Clinton. We’re becoming more polarized as a country. It’s ironic that the very liberal Sarandon thinks that Trump might be the spark that sets off the revolution. As a Catholic, I appreciate that rulers (good or bad, conservative or liberal) can be used in God's divine providence—the temple was rebuilt because of King Cyrus; Christianity was tolerated thanks to Constantine.

But full prisons, death sentences, and abortion are beyond the scope of the 2016 presidential election, and beyond the boundaries of the United States. Hayes, Sarandon, and Capehart focus on foreign policy but ignore the cosmos.

The next president of the United States may usher in a revolution—whichever side of the debate ze are on—but they will never eradicate the evil that plagues our society. It’s true, the status quo is not working. But there is no earthly utopia, and we move farther away from all that is good with each abortion, each sex change, each vote for so-called progress.

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Measuring up and motherhood

A Honda Pilot whipped past my little car this morning, which was full to the brim with two children (one asleep, the other repeatedly saying, “Why? Why? Where is it?” regarding the moon no longer being visible) and a whole bunch of groceries. I was saying my car rosary, meditating on Christ carrying his cross.

The driver flew past, a young guy. He had various stickers on his car—a brewery, different parks/states/countries, and one of those "26.2" stickers.

My last marathon was “end of pregnancy debilitating pelvic pain” (which would not fit on a sticker). And I've been lots of places since motherhood began: OBGYN waiting room, WinCo Foods in suburbia, and... let me think. Cross-country U-Haul trip with six-month-old. That was my last adventure. It went really well.

There's not much measurable about motherhood. I was (sort of still am) a box-checker. I've seen the pyramids from atop a camel. Check. I've lived in Africa. Check. Been to the Vatican, Taj Mahal, and Louvre. Check, check, check.

When I first quit my job to stay home, I was startled by the way time suddenly stopped, crawling along at this slow, dripping, drooling pace. You're busy, but nothing is ever “done.” You have a tyrannical boss, but no one appreciates how you deal with him/her/them. Your end-of-day summation consists of a list like this: one load colors, one load whites, trash and recycling, cooking and dishes, and the children are alive. Plus, I paid two bills online.

And I'm exhausted.

And I want more children.

So I'm basically an extreme sport adrenaline junky. I'm the tattooed kid in the Honda Pilot screeching through yellow lights. The box-checker thinking, “Okay, he's had the grapes, now cut up some cheese for him while I get her settled in with stirring the dinner-prep, and by the time she's done he'll be ready to go to bed, and then...” Just moving from one thing to the next, always changing, never the same. There's just no way to capture it on a sticker and slap it on a bumper.

Motherhood defies all the measurables; it takes you completely out of the game in a sense. You announce a new baby on the way, and when that baby is born. You grow in virtues and stamina, you learn what patience is. But you don't send out a Christmas card updating friends on the content of your most recent confession, or the struggles you've faced managing a child.

You always reap what you sow, more than you sow, and much later than you sow.

My measurables still won't be easy to explain, but hopefully in a couple decades the difference in my list and the culture's list will be apparent. My passport might get a bit dusty while I'm doing it, but I'm crossing all kinds of boundaries—even if the scenery isn't all that exotic.

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Babies and gateway drugs

In junior high McGruff the Crime Dog warned us that marijuana is a “gateway drug.” Once you try that, it opens up a world filled with everything from LSD to cocaine. You figure marijuana isn’t so bad, so you try something harder, and it spirals out of control. Next thing you know you’re stealing stereos out of parked cars at midnight to pay for some crack. You end up in rehab.

Source: www.talkingpointsmemo.com

Babies are a bit like that. You have one, and then you get baby fever. You see a friend’s baby and your ovaries actually ache. You smell that baby smell, you see that soft head, the little pulsing fontanel, and you think, “Just one more. . . .” You forget some of the less lovely bits about new life: leg cramps at 3 a.m., aversions to food of any sort, vivid dreams that your baby has werewolf fangs.

People will tell you to be content with what you have—don’t forget you have two perfectly healthy children to raise. Maybe you’ve suffered a miscarriage and people say, “You can always try again!” but really they’re thinking, “Why would you want another one? You look exhausted now, with just the one.”

But unless you shut off that instinct, that God-given urge to keep going, you never get into the really heavy stuff, like teaching children to share with their siblings, or the wisdom of always looking out for the smallest one, or facilitating the lifelong relationship that brothers and sisters will have, even when you and your husband are gone. 

At Justice Antonin Scalia’s funeral, his son said this about his father during the homily: 

He loved us, and sought to show that love. And sought to share the blessing of the faith he treasured. And he gave us one another, to have each other for support. That’s the greatest wealth parents can bestow, and right now we are particularly grateful for it.

Having more children is hard—there are days when rehab sounds pretty good. After all, it would be quiet. You might be able to read, and shower alone. But the desire for more children isn’t wrong. Baby fever is for our own benefit, and for the immense blessing siblings are to the children. 

Scalia left behind a legacy, but it was this that his children were most grateful for—his living of his faith in the matter of family. He and his wife Maureen had baby fever. It wasn’t his politics, his writing, or his prestigious position on the Supreme Court, but his willingness to dive headlong into the really hard stuff—the blessing of a child—nine times.  

So when you’re told, “Just be content with the one you have,” or when someone says, “I’m only having one so I can give them everything,” or laments the notion that your children will miss out on a paid-in-full college education à la parental handout, they are missing the point.

One child is easier than two, and two children are easier than three. On the bank account, on the vacation fund, on mom’s circadian rhythms. You keep going and you do spiral a bit out of control—of your body, your plans, and your time. It can be devastating to your social life, alarm your friends and family, and you might look at your bank account and consider what you can sell. You might trade in your fun car for a minivan, sell the guitar for a new washer and dryer. But that’s not wrong; that’s living for another, however many others come your way.

That first baby illuminates the heart, and it sparks a countercultural desire for the good, which is always encountered through embracing the less selfish path. Catholic comedian Jim Gaffigan said about his large family:

Well, why not? I guess the reasons against having more children always seemed uninspiring and superficial. What exactly am I missing out on? Money? A few more hours of sleep? A more peaceful meal? More hair? These are nothing compared to what I get from these five monsters who rule my life . . . each one of them has been a pump of light into my shriveled black heart. 

One of the long-reaching effects of abortion is just this: missing out on that gateway baby. The first time you hear your baby’s heartbeat, the first fluttering kick in your belly, then meet this crying little person who is placed on your chest—those moments are meant to start an absolute avalanche of self-giving and love, beyond anything you can comprehend when you don’t have children. And with each openness, conception, and birth, the joy is multiplied, the relationships grow exponentially within the family—if only we surrender to the baby fever.

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Spotlight

This movie was well-done, disturbing, and sad—as a Catholic, and as a mother. If someone (anyone, anywhere, ever) abused my children, I would feel the guilt of that, the weight of it, for the rest of my life. Why wasn't I there? Didn't I see some sign, get some feeling about the abuser, register that something was off?

If that someone was entrusted with the eternal lives of my children, as well as the very basic physical welfare of the children when they were in their presence in the parish—how can you even comprehend what that betrayal feels like?

Certainly the movie could be seen as anti-Catholic. It is, after all, about the Spotlight team at The Boston Globe investigating priests who sexually abused children. In more than one scene, the reporters are speaking to victims with Catholic churches looming over their homes, or you can hear the peel of church bells in the background. It is ever-present. However, I find it discouraging in the Church, in politics, and in families, when love is so misguided as to refuse to acknowledge faults, or try to rectify them. That's not love—it's enabling and condoning, it's not wishing the best for the people, or the Church.

On more than one occasion the benefits the Church has provided the people of Boston are mentioned. The Archdiocese is seen to be in relationship with “the city,” the two relying on each other and supporting each other—if you crack the foundation of the Church, the city will crumble as well. A seat at the banquet has a way of corrupting those with even the best intentions.

There's a lot of sin in this movie. Not just the priests, but the reporters that downplayed tips about the growing abuse crisis, the lawyers making their share on victim settlements outside the court, the priests' defense lawyer arguing for due process, and the Catholic school administrators turning a blind eye to abuse. In the interests of the city, the school, and so-called justice, everyone looked the other way and accepted the handouts, tuition, and legal fees. Don't rock the boat, but grow the bank account.

There is such a vast chasm between the eternal Church and the Church of men. A character in the movie mentions the tension of still acknowledging the one, while being disgusted with the other. It's like the saying, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” And how hard is it to separate the two, in your mind or heart?

Watching the movie, I kept thinking about the families. A letter is read from a mother of an abuse victim, saying that the family loves the Church, they don't want to hurt the Church. Another victim says that when a priest came to their house to talk about not making any abuse allegation his mom offered him cookies. Multiple times, people say the priest is “like God“ when he is paying attention to them, visiting them, sitting on their sofas. It's hard to feel like you're in conflict with God's earthly representative. 

The Church was clearly wrong to cover these things up. They wanted to preserve the good name of the Church, especially in Boston, and ended up with an even blacker eye than if they'd acted rightly—been less concerned with maintaining the status quo, presenting a flawless veneer. The truth has a way of coming to light, eventually.

But the families were also conscious of what the allegations would do to their Church. There's such a tension in the world for Catholics. We are in it, but not of it. We are the far, far right. There's a 2,000 year history full of lurid tales and conspiracy theories thrown in our face. I can understand wanting to protect the Church at the same time you protect your child. I can understand not wanting to go through a trial, to make your child a spectacle, to tarnish the image of something you love—The Church. 

The sins committed by the priests are unconscionable. And after watching the film, I made the mistake of googling Cardinal Law and his new digs in Rome. And that left another sour taste in my mouth. There's a phrase: When you go to Rome, you will lose your faith. 

If only there weren't the politics, the maneuverings, the careerism. If only there weren't the bureaucracy. If only everyone moving up and down the Catholic ladder had acted rightly. If only, if only. But the Spotlight team did what good investigative journalism should do—exposed a terrible injustice, and helped to save future children from this life-shattering abuse. 

Another casualty that touched me in the movie was the reporter Michael Rezendes, who tells his fellow journalist that while he was a lapsed Catholic, he always thought he'd end up going back. And now that wasn't possible for him. 

This wasn't just an error that occurred at a finite moment in time—it was a series of lies and manipulations with eternal consequences, for the victims, for the priests, for the reporters. How many people's faith was rocked by this? How many abandoned the Church? How much harder does it make the journey home for converts?

Spotlight was hard to watch as a Catholic, but harder as a mother. It's not like I was unaware of the scandal, but watching it and seeing my children—in the shaky hands of the victims, in the conflicted face of the wealthy defense attorney, in the reporter determined to remain lapsed—that tore at me.

The only comfort in this is the perfect justice of God.

And he said to his disciples: It is impossible that scandals should not come: but woe to him through whom they come. It were better for him, that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should scandalize one of these little ones. Luke 17:1-2

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Peace vs. Two Week Wait

Maintaining peace with children is... difficult. Yesterday my toddler finished her banana bread and drank some water, and then I noticed her gigantic chipmunk cheeks and asked, “Do you have something in your mouth?” She looked at me, sputtered, and then projectile spit the mud-like mixture she'd been swirling in her mouth. It splattered all over the window, her clothing, and the floor—just as we were about to leave the house to borrow Around the Year with the Trapp Family from the library. Home: a sanctuary.

So I'm no stranger to the struggle. Children have a way of making you realize just how selfish and clean you really are. But add to that the dreaded 2WW obsessed over in TTC forums, and you arrive at a whole new level of striving for holiness.

A friend is currently trying for another baby, and we were talking about how she feels during her two week wait. I told her that during my round of infertility I felt pregnant every single month. There were always “symptoms” even on months when there weren't many tell-tale signs of pregnancy, because not having symptoms can also be a symptom of pregnancy. It's diabolical.

I've said more than once that I would just like to know how many children I will have. Just see a tiny sliver of the future, maybe a table set for Easter lunch and how many little people are at that table. Is there a surprise pregnancy at 40 in store for me? Do my dreams of adoption work out?

Instead, I'm forced to accept the fact that if I'm not nursing, I'm going to be trying. And if I'm trying, I'm going to be aware of every twinge in my abdomen—is it because of the leftovers I had for lunch, or is it new life burrowing in? The twinges are coming from both sides—twins? We will definitely need a new vehicle, and how will I make dinner again, ever?

Birth control makes it harder for some women, because once they have “decided” to get pregnant, they expect it to happen in the same way that “deciding” to go to law school happens, or “deciding” to get married happens. And fertility isn't like that.

But I'm not stopping something from happening and then turning on the green light, I'm always and forever eager for it, waiting, praying for new life for six years running, whether I'm trying to conceive, pregnant, or up all night with a newborn. In many ways this is harder, because there's not a time when I'm able to get pregnant and not getting pregnant and okay with that.

The only way to be “in control” of birth is to avoid it. You can tie your tubes, sterilize your husband, and have peace. You will not be pregnant. You will not have that two week wait—the one where you're terrified because you don't want the baby, or the one where you're praying that the vague nauseous feeling will stick around and become infinitely worse in the weeks to come.

Being pro-life means leaving a lot of things up to God. Not just how many children you have, but how many children you might not have. It means trusting God in a very active sense, through that two week wait every month. It means relinquishing that sense of power over your life and body. It's easier to shut that down, implant the IUD, and think about something else, like plane tickets to Mexico and graduate programs.

I'm choosing the less sure path, the one where I feel every ache and pain, praying they multiply as the days pass. The only thing harder would be looking back and accepting the babies that might have been, recognizing the impact of my lack of faith. Being pro-life is choosing patience, grace, suffering, and frustration. It's climbing the path of on-going sanctification. It's choosing the pursuit of eternal life for the mother—in two week increments.

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Boycotting the Boycott List

We jumped on the bandwagon and got one of the Boycott Lists when the Planned Parenthood videos were released last year. We were disgusted, and thought we should do something more to combat this evil. 

The list arrived, and we looked at it, and then looked sadly at my husband’s new Dockers. And thought about all those Cliff Bars we consumed B.C. (before children). We bank at Wells Fargo—I had no idea they supported Planned Parenthood. The most offensive thing they’ve ever done to me was to say, “Help yourself to the snacks for whatever kind of children you have,” and then pointed to a table with lollipops for human children and dog bones for canine children. 

But there they were, on the list.

Do we switch banks? Bank of America is also on the list. M&T Bank. Deutsche Bank. JP Morgan Chase. Should we shove our money into our mattress to stop the abortions?

The real way to make the difference—be a practicing Catholic. Instead of finding banks and work pants that were in no way involved in supporting “womens rights,” which a company can always start or stop doing, why not spend less, on better things? 

If Save the Children supports abortion, then I’m not sure there are many safe companies out there. If Ronald McDonald House condones it, why would I expect a pro-life stance from a clothing manufacturer?

Instead of looking for a contraceptive manufacturer that’s ethical (a true irony to a practicing Catholic), skip the abortifacient birth control all together and have the children God intends for you, or practice Natural Family Planning. 

I think there’s enough of a market for Levi’s and Starbucks that businesses aren't running scared if the stay-at-home mom says no to Ralph Lauren or gives up her dream of attending Bikram's Yoga College. 

I do wholeheartedly support giving up Disney—because their movies aren’t very good and don’t have very good messages for children. I also advocate tossing the Cliff bar and making some healthier, infinitely cheaper homemade granola bars. 

But the Children’s Aid Society has obviously lost their mind, and the Children’s Defense Fund should be sued for false advertising. The Council of Churches support of Planned Parenthood is all the proof I need that following your conscience does not magically lead to sound doctrine.  

I understand wanting to make ethical choices, but maybe that just means living within your means and using your money wisely. Adopting children, raising children, creating a pro-life culture in your home. And wondering why you ever considered letting Dr. Phil or Elton John’s charities decide what was deserving of your money.

Boycott Democrats instead—they will have a much greater impact on abortion law than that pair of Dockers in your closet.

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Letter to the Republican Party

WHY IS IT SO HARD?

I have no issues, like some conservatives, deciding, “Can I vote for Bernie? Even though he’s pro-abortion? Can I do that?” I'm not going to vote for Bernie. Or Hillary. Or anyone else running on a pro-choice ticket.

But the Republican party makes being conservative pretty hard.

I voted for Obama back in the day. I remember dropping my ballot into the voting boxes at Pioneer Square, and thinking what an awesome, historic moment it was. I had just come back from Africa, Obama was going to be our first African American president, and I was voting for him, thinking about red dirt and Ethiopia. In short, I felt all the feelings.

I was not Catholic at that time. I was not pro-life at that time. I was firmly in the camp that knows I would never-ever-ever have an abortion, but who was I to tell someone else what they should do with their body? And I suppose there was some truth to that, because now I'm still not telling people what to do—I have the 2,000 year old Catholic Church behind me telling them what they should do.

And the Church also says I can't vote for pro-abortion candidates. So I won't. Not because I'm incapable of making my own choices, but because anyone who condones something intrinsically evil shouldn't be in a position to make those choices. Because life is sacred.

As a conservative woman my Republican candidate for VP last round was... Sarah Palin. The mom who was not raising her kids while on the campaign trail, winking through a debate, and posing in jogging clothes. And now my choice is a man who attacks anyone within 10 feet of him, whose wife has posed practically naked, and is interested in the “positives” of Planned Parenthood. George W. Bush, enough said.

I mean, come on.

I've been on the other side—the side that wanted to move to Canada when John Kerry lost. And we're making it way too easy to be dismissed as crazies. Because that's what we look like—a bunch of ignorant, backwards, conservatives. And I'm saying that from within the conservative camp, under moral obligation to vote for their candidate. I'm so disgusted, I want to burn my ballot and move to Andorra.

History shows us that being a Catholic and being intelligent are not mutually exclusive. Far from. Look at the doctors of the Church—consider Aquinas’s Summa Theologica, read Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI. There are brilliant people in the Church. So being a believer doesn't mean you're ignorant.

And I have to believe there are good men out there, because I'm married to one. So there must be another one somewhere in the country. I have friends who have good husbands. None of them are in Washington D.C. playing at politics, but presumably there is one good man out there who I would allow to come into my home and eat dinner with my children. (Donald Trump would not be on that list of people.)

When I can't find something, I inevitably troll craigslist for that item. Sometimes that works out, and sometimes it doesn't. But it's worth a shot, right? After all, what have we to lose?

missed connections
MAR 17 - Conservative politician, wearing black suit, nice haircut (Washington DC)

You spoke up on issues of abortion, euthanasia, marriage, and family, at your church and in the senate. You possessed knowledge of government and international affairs and conveyed that in a dignified manner. When you spoke, I felt inspired. You didn't see me—I was the conservative mom with two little ones, feeling embarrassed to be wearing red. It appears to be too late now, but I hope you'll find me in four years. I'll be waiting, still wearing red, hopefully carrying another baby.

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Dressing for success

I don't know Martha Plimpton, or how Hollywood has fulfilled all her dreams. All I know about her is that she's had two abortions as a young woman, and wore a dress with the word “abortion” written all over it, separated by (of all things) hearts.

She wore wore this dress, which is part of a campaign to #ShoutYourAbortion. Which—really? Why? Your babies heard your warrior cry loud and clear. No one else needs to know how strong you are, and how determined you were to kill your child.

The product description for this $85 shift dress: 

I've always wanted a shift dress that says ABORTION! #ShoutYourAbortion #Abortion #Feminism #Women #Prochoice

Even if you don't think abortion is intrinsically evil, a diabolical holocaust (which it is), what would possess a person to advertise it? To want to “shout their abortion” via shift dress? There are plenty of disgusting things about my day-to-day life as a mom. I've never worn a dress that said, 

Diarrhea♥Diarrhea♥Diarrhea or ProjectileVomitAtMidnight♥ProjectileVomitAtMidnight♥

Someone, bring back shame. Good, old-fashioned, straight-up shame, wherein you do something that bothers your conscience—and think about it, in the dark, in the middle of the night, by yourself, and cry, and maybe pray, and go to confession, and still have to live with it. As opposed to becoming a rabid spokesperson for every evil you commit. 

The actress said that her abortions “made it possible for me to live out my dreams and do what I really wanted to do with my life.” Which apparently means being a forty-five year old actress getting wasted with her sister who she “loves so hard.” 

Because obviously you can't kill a baby—your very own baby—and be completely unfazed by it. You might try to convince yourself, and others, that this is totally alright, but it's not. And you know it's not. I'm sure even Ms. Plimpton shed tears before and after her abortions, and maybe that's why she's shouting about it, so someone will tell her it's okay that she killed her children. 

“Are they ashamed of their detestable conduct? No, they have no shame at all; they do not even know how to blush. So they will fall among the fallen; they will be brought down when I punish them,” says the LORD. Jeremiah 6:15

Martha Plimpton, like so many so-called feminists, doesn't fight for women, but against all that is feminine. The most defining thing about womanhood is our ability to bear children—even the angels don't have this opportunity to participate with God in creation. Small parts in movies, roles in sitcoms, and great commercial spots are not the stuff that life is made of. They are not what we will savor in our memories as we approach death. They are the most fleeting, passing moments, with no heart, and no soul. 

Feminism has taken a seriously wrong turn when an actress is proud of her abortions, while a Catholic stay-at-home-mom to four little ones feels shame over supplementing with formula. 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Let's be real feminists, and burn this dress.

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Raising a Saint, and Saint West

Let's file this timely post under “better late than never.”

Kim Kardashian and Kanye West named their son Saint West because he was “a blessing” to them — they had difficulty getting pregnant, complications during pregnancy, and Kim doesn't like being pregnant. But being a saint means a lifetime of choices, and with one notable exception, no one is born a saint. You have to earn the accolade. 

The other day it struck me (call me a convert) that saints all had really, really hard lives. They didn't become saints in the way that protestants think of saints: the lady at church who crochets baby blankets for new babies; the man who holds the door open for his nagging wife. No, Catholic saints were hated, some of them, most of them, a lot of them, during their lifetime. Run out of town, scorned even by fellow Christians. 

The saintly life is hard. Mary is God's most perfect creation, and she is called the Mother of Sorrows. Simeon told her in the temple, “and thy own soul a sword shall pierce also." Because of everything Mary endured, from the annunciation to the resurrection, she is the Queen of Martyrs. Yet she is the most blessed of women, who lived in poverty during her life, lived in exile in Egypt, and buried her only Son.

It's hard to imagine rolling your eyes when St. Catherine of Siena is having one of her ecstasies (again) during Mass. She rubbed people the wrong way, much like a whole host of saints, much like Jesus himself. St. Catherine would frequently have only the Eucharist and water during the day—and we complain because we give up sweets for forty days during Lent. Saints make us look at our lives and consider how blessed we are, and how weak we are. They are aspirational in the best sense. 

Many a parent of a future saint was dismayed at their child's call to sainthood. The Angelic Doctor was locked in a tower by his family. When St. Catherine chopped off her hair in protest of the wedding her family wanted, they punished her by never allowing her to be alone because they knew she craved solitude. St. Francis of Assisi's wealthy father beat him and locked him up when he appeared dressed like a beggar. On more than one occasion, St. Gemma's sister would find her in ecstasy and call her friends to mock and tease her.

And it's hard to blame parents for their desire to protect their children. When a little girl shuns my three-year-old's attempt to jump rope, I have a very strong urge to smash something in her face, to actually take her down. And she's only a six-year-old. The parent's of saints see their children scorned and ridiculed, run out of town and beaten up, slandered by neighbors. We all want our children to have good lives. 

We can look at Mary's fiat and think how lovely that she was chosen, what an honor! But how many of us would say yes to everything that came after the pregnancy? Motherhood is hard. Raising a saint is on a level far above typical motherhood. It demands much from the child, and an absolute trust in God from the parents.

I doubt Kimye have visions of hardship in mind for their son. He will be raised in luxury, raised on reality TV. He may be ridiculed, but that doesn't mean most of America wouldn't trade their left arm for a shot at celebrity—and he's got that. He also has plenty to renounce and deny, like the young man who asked Jesus what he was lacking. “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me" (Matt. 19:21). That young man went away grieving, because he had much. 

May this new baby grow up and defy the odds. I can see it now: St. Saint West, the patron saint of stutterers, rappers, and reality TV stars. 

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Welcome to Happy Hour

Is it a coincidence that Sodom was a city? That God didn't destroy a corrupt agrarian community? Cities have become (and sounds like they always were) places of temptation and sin. Why is it that walkability and piety can't be rolled into one, giving us the French bakeries without the Dens of Debauchery?

There's a saying that 500 square feet in New York City is bigger than 500 square feet anywhere else. That's because you have access to everything, twenty-four hours a day, just beyond your door, from designer handbags to sex shops. There's an expectant feeling in a city—around one corner there's a street musician playing the violin, around the next corner there's a homeless man shouting at you, and you're pushing your stroller through a waft of smoke that isn't from a cigarette.

The small community requires commitment and responsibility. The village makes demands, just like family. They know you. They have expectations. Caroline Ingalls never had girls night out and forgot how many martinis she had or who she danced with. Charles wasn't going out for wings on Friday night with the boys. Their life was centered around the home, represented by the glow of a fire in the hearth.

I will feel “out of it” sometimes, and think about the old days, walking everywhere, going out all the time. But then I experience the city, with trash and cigarette butts in the park, and people drinking out of paper bags at the fountain my daughter wants to play in. There are places selling alcohol, marijuana, and women. There's gay pride events and pro-choice demonstrations. It's very loud and it drowns out peace. And, come to think of it, I didn't have much peace when I lived there. I was kind of a mess.

The city demands tolerance of what you see, here, and smell. Tolerance of every vice known to man on display. You tolerate it, and it becomes normal. I lived across from a rehab facility once, and patients in hospital gowns would scale the fence between apartment buildings to get cans out of the trash for the 5¢ refund. And I was annoyed that they were in the trash, again, while I was trying to sleep. You're not shocked because you have “seen it all” in your cosmopolitan life in the city. You aren't “backwards” like people in the country, who don't see much, but, as I have come to learn, see with much keener vision.

God promises us green pastures, not high rise apartments close to baristas and boutiques, with the middle of the night sirens and drunk people wandering out of bars. He leads us beside still waters, not the ever-flowing taps of an up-and-coming mixologist. He promises quiet. There's a reason rural communities believe in God, and think the city is noisy and dirty. Because it is. 

We've flocked to cities after the industrial revolution, and now we see everything, we tolerate all of it, and it becomes normal. The domestic life is what conflicts us, and we put it off, or avoid it all together, and get our degrees and climb our career ladders. There's no one at home, or too many demands at home. The city gives us a chance, though, if we queue up to the bar and pay for that glorious Happy Hour under the bright lights.

***
Ocean Star [CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

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Lessons in coveting from Donald Trump

People are voting for Donald Trump. It seems inexplicable. He doesn't strike me as a likable guy. Yet he's not going away. Instead of being forced to exit stage left, he's gaining momentum. America is willing to covet those things that Trump covets, and let him lead us to them.

According to Thomas Aquinas, “In whatever things good consists in a due measure, evil must of necessity ensue through excess or deficiency of that measure.” So covetousness is “immoderate love of possessing."

For those on better terms with Webster than the Angelic Doctor, covet: to want (something that you do not have) very much.

So the average conservative sees that our country is going to pot, so-called gay marriage, and terrorism, and Donald Trump appeals to them. He promises to get what he wants, and in doing that, get them what they want. For somebody to come in and make things better—for good to triumph.

And Trump is a bit like Goliath. He's a bully, and he's got a really big appetite.

Mr. Conservative has been married three times. When asked about whether this is “traditional” marriage, he says his previous wives were “very good" and he's currently in “a great marriage.” His divorces were because he worked too hard, but he says, “I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.” His current wife has posed pregnant wearing a gold bikini exiting the Trump jet. And struck a whole lot of other poses as well. Covet as Mr. Trump covets.

He's also out for vengeance, and Americans appreciate that. Every action movie tells them they should want it, that it satisfies. We've lost a religious perspective on ISIS and terrorism, so we're willing to follow the leader on this. And it's easier to shout about from a platform. “We have to beat the savages,” according to Trump. He's also talked about “taking out their families.” He wants blood. Covet as Mr. Trump covets.

At a rally in Iowa he said, “I like money. I’m very greedy. I’m a greedy person. I shouldn’t tell you that, I’m a greedy – I’ve always been greedy. I love money, right?”  He loves money, and he wants to get money for America, and money for all of us.  If a couple makes less than $50,000 per year, they won't have to pay taxes. “They get a new one page form to send the IRS saying, 'I win,'” according to Trump's tax plan. His home is decorated in 24K gold and marble. But you win if you make less than 50K annually. Covet as Mr. Trump covets.

In his 1987 book The Art of the Deal, Trump wrote, “I play to people's fantasies. I call it truthful hyperbole. It’s an innocent form of exaggeration — and a very effective form of promotion.” So when he said, “If I become president, we're all going to be saying 'Merry Christmas' again," that probably won't happen. But when he said, “No one is going to touch us, because I'm so unpredictable,” that has a slight ring of truth.

Maybe Americans are anticipating four years of reality TV in the White House. They can't wait to see what Melania will be wearing at the inauguration. Trump can be a stand-in for every wronged person in America, working out the justice we want to see done—in the Middle East, in the CPA's office, or at the local House of Cannabis. Whatever the reason, fight the urge. Wise leaders are men of truth, integrity, and faith—not men who appeal to our basest instinct for revenge, money, and the last word.

For the record, I do want people to say, “Merry Christmas,” again. I just don't think Donald Trump is going to make that happen.

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John Legend deserves a girl

And a girl is what he's going to get. Thanks to a whole bunch of misguided science.

In an interview with People, the singer's wife, Chrissy Teigen,  said, “I’ve made this decision. Not only am I having a girl, but I picked the girl from her little embryo. I picked her and was like, ‘Let’s put in the girl.’” The article refers to gender selection as an IVF “add on” that's “a bit controversial.” But all's well that ends well, right? Teigen elaborated on her choice, saying, “I think I was most excited and allured by the fact that John would be the best father to a little girl. I think he deserves a little girl. I think he deserves that bond.”

Now if only those other fertilized eggs, those unfortunate other girls, and those rejected boys, could get what they deserve. But aside from that sticky little issue, isn't it odd that everyone from single men to the wealthy Hollywood set, to the sadly infertile couple you know from work, all think they deserve a child—and will go to whatever lengths necessary to get one? Or two? Or eight?

It's a strange time in history, because prior to 1977 if you couldn't get pregnant, well, you couldn't get pregnant. You were Hannah in the temple, pleading with God. You were Sarai, making desperate choices to give your husband an heir. But you weren't mixing babies in test tubes, selecting which one you would give life to. You weren't scrambling together eggs from one woman, sperm from across the country, and inserting them in another woman's womb, absent the unifying act of marriage, at a huge monetary cost.

The thing is, we don't deserve any of the blessing we receive. Infertility makes that crystal clear. Children are a gift from God. You can't force a blessing upon yourself. You can try everything to make new life happen: switch to decaf coffee, eat pregnancy “super foods,” visualize yourself pregnant, don't think about getting pregnant, or (my personal favorite, after our infertility) start a new hobby. “When you're not thinking about it, it will happen!”  says someone with two sets of twins and another on the way, who is also 26 years old.

We don't deserve children. Our entitlement culture encourages us to think we do, and an industry has grown up to fill this need. It's the same impulse that prompts people to buy houses that are too big, cars that are too expensive, and keeps the mall parking lot packed each and every day. You deserve this. It also keeps divorce lawyers awfully busy. You deserve better/different/more.

We destroy children when they aren't wanted, and create them when they are wanted. Industry giants like Planned Parenthood making millions passing out contraceptives and aborting children. Then when the switch flips—we have houses, degrees, fatter bank accounts, our friend has a really cute baby—there's another industry ready to give us the very child we went to such lengths to avoid. And in this process, there is even more death.

It's a post-Christian world, it's lucrative, and it's lethal. There's a saying attributed to Augustus about the tyrannical ruler Herod the Great: “It is better to be Herod's pig than his son.” He had his favorite wife and children killed, but he didn't eat pork. John Legend's sons haven't fared well, but his (male) bulldog, Puddy, has been given a mock wedding. Maybe if and when the urge strikes to give Puddy a brother, Legend and Teigen will pick another baby from their stash of frozen embryos, and “put him in.”

I hope John Legend does cherish his little girl. And may they learn that parenting is not about what mom and dad think they deserve or want or need. It's sleepless nights and poop stained clothes, thirty-second showers abruptly ended when the toddler flushes something down the toilet. It's a sanctifying process (much like infertility). So even though moms may deserve a full nights sleep, a warm meal, and clean clothes for a whole day, that's not always how it works. Thank God.

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Escapist nonfiction

For a million reasons, including but not limited to literature, pastries, and architecture, I've always felt like I should have been born in Europe. And then moved to sub-Saharan Africa when I was old enough. Something about hyena roadkill and the red dirt but also skyscrapers... It's just like no place else.

I digress.

If you can't be in Europe worshiping in ancient cathedrals, or conducting clandestine missions in Soviet Russia, you can at least read books written by those who did and do. Books to read, highly recommended:

With God in Russia, by Walter Ciszek, S.J. This book is amazing, and because he was a priest in Russia in prison camps it resonated with me more than One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. And he willingly chose to go into Russia because he felt called to minister to the people there. This will make whatever you are doing for Lent seem like nothing at all, and (if you're like me) make some part of you want to be in an underground parish with a priest dodging the KGB to bless your Easter baskets.

Searching for and Maintaining Peace: A Small Treatise on Peace of Heart, by Jacques Philippe. My husband attended his talk at St. Cecilia's last night and brought this home for me. It's excellent. I'm always wishing things/people in my life were different, and struggle to maintain a sense of joy and peace in spite of our particular situation, so this really resonated with me. And who doesn't have trouble staying calm with small children? Or average children? Or big children? Or your neighbor who let's her dog go #2 in your yard and always asks when your children will start daycare.

God bless!
Будьте здоровы
Dieu vous protège

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The nuances of abortion

Samantha Bee's interview with Texas State representative Dan Flynn (R) on Full Frontal proves what we've known all along: pro-lifers don't care about how people kill their children—they just think it's wrong. This is why you can't trust politicians. But the article showed up in the Health category of Yahoo News, so apparently pro-life politicians aren't the only ones who don't know how abortion works.

The headline claims that the politician seeking to restrict abortion/make abortion safer was “embarrassed” because he didn't know that a woman wasn't cut during an abortion (hopefully). Has anyone embarrassed someone because they didn't know exactly how the gas chambers worked at Aushwitz? Is that knowledge necessary to know something is sinful and to try to stop it?

Good and evil are clearly defined. Abortion is evil. You don't have to study it to know that. Just as a priest who doesn't have children of his own knows that children are a gift from God, we can know with certainty that killing children is an evil. Contrary to the logic of our experiential culture, we can intellectually know the ends of abortion, without having one or watching one, and want to restrict and abolish it. That's not foolishness, that's wisdom.

Abortion is dangerous. It kills a baby, it can and does physically harm the mother. But polls show that the restrictions which have resulted in abortion clinic closures in Texas mean women now have an “undue burden” in accessing an abortion. The Supreme Court will be addressing this concern in Whole Women's Health v. Hellerstedt. The restrictions passed in 2013 have resulted in fewer clinics, so women wanting to abort their babies have to spend more money on gas, drive farther, and worry about things like childcare and hotels.

It's a tragedy.

There have been 58,586,256 abortion since Roe v. Wade in America alone. Does that number reflect something that is difficult to access? Apple sold 58 million iPhones last spring in one quarter. Do iPhones seem difficult to access? Was the news covering the devastating shortage of iPhones? Have you ever heard someone say, “I really want an iPhone, I just don't know if I can get one. It seems very hard, and like it might require too much effort.” Can anything numbering in the tens of millions be difficult to access?

I've had someone knock on my door and ask me if I'm aware of the conditions under which bees make honey. “Profiting from honey requires the manipulation and exploitation of the insects’ desire to live and protect their hive,” according to the article on PETA's website. Let's call Planned Parenthood the hive and Cecile Richards the Queen Bee. They receive half-a-billion dollars in government funding each year. They won't show you an ultrasound of your baby before you have an abortion. It's just tissue, after all. So why does studying the plight of the honeybee evoke such passion, yet Samantha Bee knows exactly how abortion is performed and condones it? Understanding something obviously has nothing to do with recognizing it for what it is.

Good.

Better.

Abortion is an evil. Our culture wants us to look at the lives of women seeking abortions and empathize with how limiting access to “healthcare” has burdened them. It wants sympathy for the bee, who is a victim of human manipulation, but turns women murdering their children into victims of a corrupt system. And all those who consider the baby, The victim is the woman, the baby is nothing but an inconvenience.

If we want to hear from a real woman on the abortion issue, let's bring Norma McCorvey to the Supreme Court hearing—let's hear from Roe herself. She's an actual person, she's pro-life, and she's Catholic. Let's hear from some of the women attending Rachel's Vineyard. Let's acknowledge that human life has a greater dignity than the honeybee, because we are made in the very image and likeness of God. Let's recognize abortion for the evil it is and end it.

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