Are Facelifts Idol Worship? | Friday Tidings

Are Facelifts Idol Worship? | Friday Tidings

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Counting the Cost

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Something big is missing in this photo. Let me explain. Here in my hometown, the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe prepared a parcel of land for a new hotel. Plenty of planning and architectural designs were evaluated. A gemstone of a hotel would be built across from the waterfront—a beautiful, restful place welcoming travelers. A true four-star facility.   They cleared the aging brick structures that had been fading away between Front Street and Railroad Avenue. Then the pandemic hit, shortages of labor and supplies, add in the costly inflation that followed. Everything stopped.   But this is what I admire about the Elwha Tribe: they have counted the cost. They didn’t want to move forward and take on tremendous debt. They would rather move slowly and be financially ready, rather than begin building and then letting it sit unfinished.   Counting the cost is something I should have done earlier in life when I didn’t know what high interest rates would do to our farming cost...
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Summertime Music

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During the summer months, in an outside seating area, a delightfully painted piano sits with a sign that says, “Play me”.   It was just before 8 pm as I walked past the piano. My bus would be arriving soon, and I still have another ten minutes to walk before reaching my bus stop. But no one is around. It’s a beautiful warm evening. I pulled out the piano bench and sat down. The sun was behind me, and the piano keys reflected its glow. I had no music in front of me, only the songs within me. Notes drifted into the air.  In those brief moments, the magic of music and summer came together. Isn’t that how it is? Summertime music has a way of lingering in our minds and lasting a lifetime. As I stood and grabbed my things, I heard distant clapping—I guess I wasn’t alone, after all.
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Please Don't Tell Anyone

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She asked me not to tell. Once she shared her secret I felt ashamed and would have been mortified to actually tell someone else what was happening. I was probably eight years old and back then, no one talked about the things that happened behind closed doors. When she moved away, I never saw her again. But I've never forgotten her secret. Fast-forward to a school hallway during the hustle between classes. “Do you have a minute to talk?” I looked down into dark eyes that seemed to plead with me. She’d been one of the students who had just listened to me talk in her health class. As soon as no one was close by, she said, “Please don’t tell anyone.” Those same words. Again. Only a different girl, in a different time and place. She might not want to tell, but she’d never get free unless someone came to her rescue. Most schools have “safe places” for kids to share the dark secrets that tend to perpetuate themselves. Without intervention, 30% of ab...
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