Friday Tidings

New revelations from National Intelligence Director James Clapper indicate that Khorasan, an exceedingly brutal offshoot of al-Qaeda, recruited American Muslims—who’ve used their passports to travel to and from Syria. Because of this successful terrorist training venture we now have HVE’s—Homegrown Violent Extremists living in the United States. Khorasan has worked closely with Ibrahim al-Asiri, a bomb-making expert from al Qaeda’s Arabian Peninsula branch. This group was responsible for explosive devices placed on three aircraft bound for the US. No one wants to imagine those bomb-making abilities employed by America’s HVE’s. According to Clapper, “The Khorasan group currently poses more of a threat to the U.S. homeland, because of its greater experience in transnational terrorist operations and access to more sophisticated bombs.” What can Americans do? 1. Be watchful. Soft targets like public transportation and stadiums will always remain vulnerable. If you se...

I didn’t want to add more words to the thousands already written about the Ray Rice elevator video, but a brief conversation led me to reconsider. On one side, was a friend with a battered past and on the other was someone who understood provocation, anger, and manhood. Two sides to the issue, but nothing is ever “right” about abuse. The media outrage and subsequent NFL ousting of Rice in the midst of a stellar career was just the beginning. Now more NFL players are being spotlighted for domestic abuse issues.  Listen to enough talk shows and you sense that the NFL should do more, some suggesting that sponsors pull support from the NFL.  But even if NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell resigns, that wouldn’t alter the reality for the three women murdered by their abusers—which happens everyday in America. One in four women will face abuse during their lifetime. And for children living in abusive homes—they are more likely to become abusers or be abused. Dome...

I’ll always remember meeting my future father-in-law. My boyfriend’s folks had arrived on our college campus, ostensibly to drop off some much-needed items, but I suspected they wanted to see the young woman their son seemed to love. I knocked on my boyfriend’s dorm room door and as I entered I could smell the bacon his mom was frying on the small stove. His dad stood as I entered—he’d been reading his Bible at a nearby table. Small talk about college life carried us through breakfast, but when mom and son left to get some boxes out of the car, I remained behind to talk with his dad. What I didn’t realize then, is that my boyfriend’s father cared more about my future than I did. And by future, it wasn’t about my anticipated career, or even my relationship with his son. This was about my eternal future. Never before had anyone talked about eternity like he did. Not even my pastor. He pulled out a small notepad and drew a diagram of two hills. One hill represen...

I could tell she’d reached critical mass. No smile today. Her rigid jaw seemed frozen. I slid into the booth across from her and didn’t bother with the formalities. Splayed across the small table were piles of bills. “There’s no way I can pay rent and buy food.”   Carlie jabbed her finger at just one glaring example of financial ruin—her power bill. Even though she wasn’t using air conditioning, her summertime bill was more than she spent on groceries. Cutting costs? Don’t even mention her car. She can’t afford her car and can’t afford not having it. Her two minimum wage jobs are miles from her low-rent apartment and the bus doesn’t run after hours—when she gets off work. Without a car, she’d be late to work after dropping her son off at the government-subsidized daycare. And by the time she pays for the mandatory car insurance, frequent repairs, and fuel, NOTHING is left over for life’s incidentals. Which is what today’s drama is all about. Carli...

Back in the day when girls wore dresses to school each day, my homemade dresses with dangling sashes tied in a neat bow were a tantalizing lure for the grade school bully. I became terrified of recess. Staying inside wasn’t an option. Lined up and sent outdoors every morning, noon, and mid-afternoon was my elementary fate. Hovering around the playground teacher helped some, but over the next several school years, I’d come home with ripped sashes and skinned knees. I could never outrun the faster, stronger legs of the older boy. Other kids came back from recess unscathed. Not me. My school life was divided between the security of the classroom and the nightmare at recess. Schools across America are welcoming young kids for another year. Some will face tough playground challenges—which can easily extend into hallways, lunchrooms, and bus rides.  Bullying is wrong, but sometimes kids are afraid to tell. I’ve never forgotten the hissing threats as ...

On one of those perfectly sunny, grandma-babysitting days, we set off to play in a nearby park. Kids were enjoying the merry-go-round and the jungle gym. But what attracted my four-year-old grandson was the fenced-off tennis court.   Two kids were riding their bikes in and out of the lines on the newly finished courts. Their parents watched on a bench just inside the gated entrance. The kids laughed as they raced one another, occasionally crashing into the net between the two sides. A sign was clearly posted on the entrance—No Bicycles Allowed. Just beginning his reading quest, my grandson already knew the word “No”.   He asked me what words came next. I whispered that the sign asked people not to ride bikes on the tennis court. He may have only been four, but he could clearly see two kids riding their bikes where they shouldn’t have been. We watched awhile longer and then he reached up to open the gate. I helped lift the latch thinking tha...

Instead of lounging on a sunny beach this summer, our marital togetherness was spent re-staining our home. Sharing a paint bucket and scaffolding gave us many hours to contemplate if we felt bonded or in bondage. Every log on our cabin was tediously sanded down to bare wood, and so were our nerves. Behind my safety-goggled eyes, I observed that over the years, my husband had become like me. My perfectionist tendencies were on full display—in him. How did this happen? I was now the sloppy one and my lack of painting skills revealed it. My husband seemed to care more about the correct form of back brushing than me…. Was saving thousands of dollars on labor worth the exasperation we felt for one another?  Yes. And here’s why: Marriage is work. Just like the work of staining our home. Hours of sanding exposed the beauty of the natural wood again. A good marriage requires occasional sanding too. We needed to get beneath the layers of his expectations and my selfishn...