My Muse Snuck Up On Me

A Writers Lament

 

 

Don't mean any harm

And I don't think I boast

At the ready is a little charm

Maybe more than most

 

Let it all naturally unfold

Like we already know

Don't have to be told

That it all does show

 

Not much we can do

Other than wonder what

Is sure to ensue

After the door has been shut

 

The story is sure to come out

Wasn't hidden too deep

But what they don't know about

Are the secrets that we alone do keep

 

                                  

Do you know something I do not understand? Why is it that “Seasons Greetings,” “Happy Holidays,” and “X-Mas” offends Christians, but most non-Christians don’t get offended if you wish them a “Merry Christmas?”

There are hundreds of holidays celebrated between Thanksgiving and the first week of January, the “traditional” Christmas season. Hanukah, Kwanzaa, Diwali, Bodhi, Solstice, Saturnalia, Yule, Mawlid El-Nabi, Advent, St. Nicholas Day (you know, the dude Santa Claus is based on,) Watch Night/New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day…even the Appalachian tradition of new Christmas (December 25th) and old Christmas (January 6th) come to my mind. I know there are others, but I am too lazy to look them up. So why NOT wish everyone “Season’s Greetings” Or “Happy Holidays?”

Did you know the abbreviation X-Mas is not X-ing out Christ? The "X" comes from the Greek letter Chi, which is the first letter of the Greek word Christós, which became Christ in English. The suffix -mas is from the Latin-derived Old English word for Mass. So, Xmas and Christmas are one in the same.

So much of the symbols we commonly associate with Christmas are borrowed from other celebrations, including the date itself. Many scholars and scientists estimate His birth was during the summer, while others have estimated October based on ancient celestial movements. They correlate that the Star of Bethlehem could have been a conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter which occurred in October of 7 BC. The ancient church moved the celebration to December 25th to coincide with the Pagan celebrations of Yule and Saturnalia.

The decorated trees; the colors of red, white, and green; holly and ivy; caroling, feasting, and giving presents are all found in other religions. Most of which pre-date Christianity. Even the nativity and the story of a Savior being born of a virgin on December 25th are not exclusive to Christianity. Horus, an Egyptian god, was born of a virgin on the 25th. Likewise, Mithra, from Persia, Buddha, Babylonia’s Thammuz, Krishna, and the Greek’s Hermes. "Mithramas" doesn’t roll off the tongue, though, does it? 😁

Knowing this doesn’t change the meaning of the story of Jesus Christ, though. As a Christian, I know that none of these other gods hold the same power that my God does. But the Bible is noticeably clear on how we are to treat foreigners in our lands, which I extend to people of other faiths: “When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Lev. 19:33-34)

Of course, I am over-simplifying things as usual. I could write on this all day…but if you have time to complain that someone wished you Happy Holidays, you’ve got time to read up on these things.

Happy Holidays Y’All!

❤️🎄💚

 

Been thinking about forgiveness recently. What it means to ask for it. What it means to give it. What it means to be forgiven and of course what the bible says about forgiveness.

 As a Christian, asking for and receiving forgiveness for my sins is central to my relationship to Christ. When I gave my life to Jesus, I asked him to forgive me for all my sins. He died on Calvary to pay the price for my forgiveness. The Bible is clear, as well, on our obligation as Christians—we must forgive those who hurt us. As Christ forgives us, we forgive others. Christians are also commanded to turn the other cheek.

 Are we free from all consequences of our transgressions once we ask for and receive forgiveness? Yes and no. Being forgiven by Christ means I will not suffer the ultimate consequence of an eternity in hell. But that does not mean I am expected to be free from other consequences. For example, I rob a bank. I regret it and ask the Lord to forgive me. He does. I ask the bank owner to forgive me, and he does, however I still have to go to jail for theft. I am forgiven, but I still have a consequence.

 If someone hurts you, is it okay to forgive them, but separate yourself from them to avoid being hurt further? Surely that is not against the scriptures. Even in my limited understanding.

 Often times in therapy, we talk about setting limits/boundaries to protect ourselves from being retraumatized by interactions with those who have hurt us. Ideally, we should forgive and forget, but that does not always happen. Take my relationship with some of my family members for example…it is extremely complicated for sure. I have been hurt, felt rejected, lied to, mistreated. When I was much younger, I wanted nothing more than to earn the affection and respect I believed I deserved. This need to be liked bled over into other relationships in my life.

 After your heart has been broken a few times, you develop a guard around your heart. At first, it is a chain-link fence with a gate. You open the gate and tentatively let them back in, only to have them hurt you again. So, you tear down the chain-link and put up a higher, wooden fence only to have them tear it down and get back in to repeat the hurt. So, you build a high stone wall. The cycle continues until you imprison your heart in a castle, surrounded by high stone walls with gun turrets, and a moat filed with hungry alligators.

 I am feeling like it might be time, though, to make peace with the past. I have already decided to forgive, but more important I need to ask for forgiveness. I am not without blame. I am certain that the other parties do not feel as if they have done anything wrong, so I am not going to tell them I forgive them. If they do ask for it, it has already been given, though. I do not say that to virtue signal but merely as a way of looking for the positive in what is an emotionally difficult decision.

 My unthinking response is to retreat back to the castle, but I only see more hurt and resentment if I choose that option. When we lost my brother Bill, I was blessed to have made peace with him. We were close when I was younger, having a similar view of the world, a shared love of books and music, but as he batted his demons and mine, we lost that. And while we were not the best of friends, we had discussed things that had happened, said “I’m sorry,” and started reestablishing a relationship that was once lost due to alcoholism. It did not make his death any easier to accept, but it did save me from the what ifs and guilt I felt when my Mom passed away, and then when my baby brother Rob took his own life.

 PLEASE DO NOT get me wrong, I am not saying everyone should forgive and forget traumas. For me, though, I have decided that my own ego and need for affection and respect do not have to continue to feed my bitterness. And you know what they say about bitterness…

                                         

My life changed forever on a Friday night, October 18, 2019. Technically it all started a few weeks before that night, as an infection was raging through my body. I should have felt it happening and taken steps to prevent it, but I did not. It was meant to happen this way, and something positive came out of it, so I am not sure if I regret it per se or wish the blessing had come to me in a different way. Am I making sense?

Maybe I should stop using cryptic language and share what happened?

 On that Friday night, I had been sick for a few days. My back ached, I could not keep food or liquids down, my joints were sore, I had bladder spasms, unusually excessive thirst, dizzy, and I was running a fever. I had been battling the symptoms of a UTI for a few weeks. I knew the symptoms, I knew that I should see a doctor and obtain some antibiotics before I turned septic (I spent a week in the hospital in December of 2016 with sepsis,) but I did not.

 Why? The short answer is that I was bull headed. I think somewhere in that deep, dark hole in my psyche where my anxiety and depression reside, I wanted to die.

I did not have health insurance at the time, and I was deeply concerned about the cost of a doctor or urgent care visit. When I left Parallon in late 2017 and we moved to Georgia, I lost my health coverage. I went on disability in the Spring of 2018, but you must wait two years before you become eligible for Medicare. My husband and I lived on a shoestring budget and unfortunately in the summer of 2019 when he was eligible to enroll in his company’s healthcare plan, he mistakenly left me off the enrollment. We did not discover the mistake until it was past the time for changes, so they told him he could not add me until open enrollment in November for the 2020 new year. 

My agoraphobia had also overtaken my life. The thought of just using my walker to go to the kitchen for a sandwich petrified me. I had not left the apartment since we moved in December 2018.

On the night of October 18^th, I stumbled into my bathroom. After being sick for what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes, I climbed into the shower on wobbly legs thinking a warm shower and a clean nightgown would help me feel better. After a few minutes, my wobbly legs started to give way underneath me and I called for Chuck as I grabbed my handicap bar and tried to keep from going down. My left leg crumbled underneath me as I went down, and my right leg went forward. Chuck and I tried in vain to free me and get me out of the tub, but we were unable to move me. He called 911. 

It took ten Whitfield County firefighters and rescue paramedics to extract me from the tub and drag me out of the bathroom and through my bedroom to their gurney waiting in the hall outside my bedroom door. I was not going to allow them to take me to the ER at first, but I was overruled, so they threw sheets over me to cover my nakedness. Any shred of dignity I had prior was gone as I was wheeled to the ambulance, covered only by sheets, in front of gawking neighbors, begging Chuck to grab a housedress and slippers before he followed us to the ER. I would need clothes to wear home once they released me and sent me home later that night.

Or so I thought. 

I remember the short ride to the hospital. I remember being unloaded from the ambulance; the cool October night air felt good on my hot face. The ER was busy, but I remember being wheeled into an exam room right away. I have a faint memory of a nurse trying to insert a catheter. I had hit my shoulder against the back wall of the shower, so they were going to x-ray my shoulder and leg to make sure there were no broken bones. They tried to put an oxygen mask on me, and I freaked out. The world went black.

My next memory is hazy. I was on my back, looking at a bar and some kind of chain hanging over me. I could not move and when I tried, everything hurt and a male voice chastised me, “quit fighting Ms. Bryant. We can’t help you if you fight us.” It was so hot. There were strange sounds and strange voices. I tried to take a deep breath to calm myself, but no breath came. Then it hit me…I’m dead and this is hell. 

The room was mostly dark, but there was a light coming through an opening to my right. I tried to turn my head, but it would not move. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a bald man approaching, dressed in black hospital scrubs. His skin was red and all I could think was the devil was coming to get me. I shut my eyes tight and all I saw was red. I prayed; in my head my voice was screaming. 

“You can’t take me, I’m a child of God. Jesus, please help me.”  The angry red turned a comforting blue, then a bright, warm yellow. I just knew He was there with me. 

My next memory was waking up. At first, I thought she was an angel because her face sparkled slightly in the low light. Turns out it was just highlight powder. She was young, dressed in navy blue scrubs. Her dark blond/light brown hair had streaks of deep brown and light blonde. She wiped my face with a damp cloth and told me not to try to talk. I felt myself drifting back into the black nothing of sleep. 

As my semi-consciousness faded, I heard a voice say, “poor thing. She will wake up and he’ll be gone.” Another voice said, “what happened?”  The first voice replied, “he was so distraught over her, he wrecked his car when he went home.” A terror returned to my heart. They were talking about my darling Chuck. I prayed again, “Jesus, please don’t let me wake up from this nightmare. Just bring me to heaven” And then, the yellow light faded into inky black and silence.

My next memory is waking up. Really waking up. I was sitting semi-upright, a middle-aged doctor to my right, and two young nurses in scrubs to my left. My body hurt, my head pounded, my legs felt like they were in extra-large blood pressure cuffs, and as I tried to take a breath to speak, the tube in my throat felt like it scraped against the inside of my chest. Dr. Green explained they were going to take the tube out but would have to put it back if I could not breathe on my own. I nodded and it felt like an eternity until the tube came out. I took a deep breath that felt like it was filled with sand. My lips, mouth/tongue, throat, and lungs were all on fire.

After a few ragged breaths, the doctor spoke again, “You gave us a scare Ms. Bryant. You have a long road ahead of you, but the worst is over. There’s someone here who wants to see you.”  And before I knew it, there was my Chuck. I eventually found out it was October 28^th. I thought I had only been out for a couple of days when the nurse said it was Monday. Turns out I had been in a coma for ten days. I kept fighting the oxygen mask, then the ventilator, and in my stupor before the coma was induced, I tried to pull out my picc line, the IV, and my foley catheter. The bars and chains turned out to be the trapeze bar attached to my bariatric bed and the “blood pressure cuffs” on my legs were actually compression sleeves to stave off blood clots. 

The overheard conversation which had me believing Chuck was dead was about the woman in the room next to mine. The bald, red skinned, man in the black scrubs? None of my doctors, nurses or respiratory techs were bald. Although prior to becoming sick, I had been calling myself a Christian for a while, deep down I always had doubts. My experience while in the coma was a transformation. Any doubts I had about God were gone. It was my spiritual equivalent of being “scared straight.” I rededicated my life to Christ in that hospital bed.

The diagnosis was septic shock and if my kidneys had not started working after the first few days on the vent, they would have started dialysis. I was lucky. The heavy antibiotics which saved my life did damage to the muscles and tendons in my legs. Before I got sick, walking was difficult due to my arthritis and fibromyalgia; I would also become winded easily. After being in the bed for ten days, combined with the muscle damage, left me unable to walk. If I had not gone to the hospital, my undiagnosed COPD would have killed me eventually. The sepsis and my lungs were competing to see which one could kill me first.

I spent a couple more days in ICU before being transferred to what they called a “step down” unit. It was not a pleasant place. Chuck nearly cold-cocked the lung specialist when the first words out of his mouth before even examining me or discussing my new COPD diagnosis were, “I can’t do anything for you until you have weight loss surgery.” He never did listen to my lungs. I cried when the diabetic specialist came to visit. I knew what the diagnosis of type 2 diabetes meant. By that time my belly was already a sea of bruises from daily insulin and blood thinner injections. Did you know if you are fortunate enough to survive septic shock, the subsequent restarting of vital organs changes your body’s physiology?

After two tense days of being treated like a burden and over hearing some very hurtful and unprofessional comments from the nurse technicians, I was finally transferred to the bariatric ward. Treatment there was like a breath of fresh air. I nearly got myself transferred to the psych ward when I answered a nurse who asked if I needed anything, “a gun so I can shoot myself.” Chuck wanted to box my ears. And although they did not transfer me, I did have a few visits from a staff psychiatrist and my day nurse searched my room everyday for several days to ensure no one was bringing me anything I could hurt myself with. 

I spent all of November, December, and the first week of January in that room. I learned to ride the Hoyer lift like it was second nature. If I could have walked, they would have sent me home in late November when my secondary bout of pneumonia (side effect of being intubated, as were the lovely blisters around my mouth from the tubing and masks) finally cleared up. The doctors kept suggesting rehab facilities, but since I was not insured none would take me. I continued to do my occupational and physical therapy every day. OT was successful…I learned to shower sitting down, comb my hair, brush my teeth, wash my face, and use my damaged left arm. By the beginning of December, I had managed to ween myself off supplemental O2; though I still had to wear the bi-pap at night. My pressure wounds, which begun in ICU but opened up in the step-down unit, were finally healing as well.

I was starting to be able to stand for a few moments at a time. I was unsteady, it hurt, but my anxiety was my worst enemy. Mid-December brought what they thought was the flu until the swabs came back negative. I ran a fever, could not hold food down, my sense of taste was gone, my sinuses and lungs filled up with yuck, and my joints ached. Docs said it was a virus, but not flu. This was two months before the country locked down due to coronavirus and to this day, I have this crazy idea that I might have caught an early strain. Ironically, I caught it from one of my nurses. I had to go back on supplemental O2, they added anti-viral medication and an antibiotic (to prevent a secondary infection) to my twice daily cocktail of medications which by this time included medicines for nerve pain, COPD, high blood pressure, diabetes, kidney function, every vitamin supplement under the sun, and anxiety and depression.

I eventually got over the unknown viral infection, but it was not until after I went to a physical rehab center in early January. But that is another memory for another day. 

So, you see, Jesus saved me for a reason. Not once, but several times. I have been back to the hospital since coming home from rehab in late February of 2020. A week after I was home the nation’s nursing homes went into lockdown for COVID. I could have been one of the nursing home death statistics from the early days of COVID. I should have died that night in October 2019. I should have died in late December 2019. And I was dying again in December 2020 from CO2 poisoning, but He saved me from death yet again. That memory is, like my rehab stint, for another time.

I have made some huge mistakes in my life. I continue to stumble some days. I know it sounds trite, and probably a bit fantastical to those who do not believe in Jesus the way I have come to; however, I know without any doubt that I am a child of the King. Somedays I want to shout it from the rooftops. Why share all this now, almost two years since it all started? I am not sure, honestly. It felt like it was time. My mind has gradually cleared as time has passed, while my body continues to heal. I may never heal enough to travel and share my testimony in the traditional way, so I am doing it the best way I know how—by stringing words together. Two thousand, four hundred and thirty-five words (more now, I just stopped counting.) 

Most of these words are meaningless, though.

 

 

I think everyone has figured out by now that I am anti-stupidity/conspiracy-theory and anti-COVID. I am pro-vaccine and pro-mask/social distancing/hygiene. I have begged. I have pleaded. I have chastised. And I have argued that we should ALL be doing everything we can to prevent the spread of COVID.

 I am starting to become uncomfortable with some of the tactics the media and other vaccine proponents are using to try and convince the vaccine hesitant to get the shot. I say the hesitant because those who have declared themselves 100% anti-vaccine will never take the shot no matter how much logic, statistics, scientific fact, argument, or shame you throw at them. Media coverage, even social media, is starting to feel a bit ghoulish to me. Pictures of people lined up in ICU beds, hooked up to machines with tubes shoved down their throats. Almost gleeful reports of high-profile anti-vaccine radio personalities dying from COVID.

 When I went into septic shock in October of 2019, I was intubated and spent ten days in a coma. The powerful antibiotics they gave me to save my life also left me permanently disabled and I continue to try and walk on legs with damaged muscles, tendons, and nerves from that time. I originally blamed my negative reaction to news reels of intubated patients on my PTSD from that experience. And that may very well be. But I am also hearing others express their discomfort as well.

 Every day there seems to be at least one news story about an outspoken anti-vax radio or tv personality who has died from COVID. The tone is smug. It is never said directly, but there is a “see, I told you so” implication. Likewise, when they interview exhausted doctors and nurses, telling stories of the non-famous anti-vaxxers who are wishing for the vaccine on their death beds. This ghoulish (in my opinion) tactic is not doing any good and I am afraid it may be doing more harm than good.

 It is akin to those humane society commercials. You know the ones with the incredibly sad song in the background and a barrage of awful images of animals who have been mistreated, malnourished, and/or abused. That tactic is a waste of money and resources. Those who can stomach the images more than likely will not be moved enough to donate time and money. Those who it could reach are like me, too upset by the images to be moved to donate time and money. I cannot reach the remote fast enough to turn the station when I hear the first note.

 The hard-core anti-vaxxers have made up their minds and no matter what, will not be moved. Those who are hesitant are likely to be like me with the humane society and just hide it or tune it out. I’m not saying we should stop all coverage on the subject. I guess what I am wishing for is a more straight-forward approach. Present the statistics, like hospitals are doing. We must do something different because current strategies are not working. We have started down the path of mandates, which is not going to work either. For most people I know, telling them they are required to do something they do not want to do is just going to make them fight it even harder.

Growing up, my mom often told me (and whomever was listening) that I had no common sense/street smarts. Actually, her words were, “that kid can tell you why it’s raining, but she hasn’t got the sense to come in out of it.” I was (or should it be present tense am?) naïve, however I realize in the last few years that I am far from being without common sense and critical thinking skills. And truthfully, I’m not all that intelligent or “book learnt”. Being an avid reader with a proclivity for words has managed to give the appearance that I am far more learned and intelligent than I actually am.

I am, however, in possession of critical thinking skills. I believe that may be why it astounds me, really, how prolific conspiracy theories have become during the past few years. During this time of COVID they are especially rampant. Qanon and other online crackpot theories have thrived. And in my opinion, they have become dangerous. People are dying and I really cannot for the life of me figure out why. Our democratic process of elections is under attack due to “The Big Lie.”

How can a grown person, smart enough to drive, pay their own bills, and hold down a steady job, most of which require a great deal more education and skill than I could ever hope to possess, believe without question that there is a secret cabal of pedophiles running the world who meet secretly and drink the blood of babies?

How can they believe their cousin Freddy’s friend’s Uncle Otis when he says he has irrefutable proof that the COVID vaccine contains a microchip (or the Biblical “Mark of the Beast”) over the word of doctors, pharmacists, nurses, the CDC, and even the World Health Organization? (Psst.if you are concerned about recognizing the “Mark”, please read Revelation chapter thirteen, especially verse sixteen. )

As I have mentioned previously, I was never blessed with birthing my own children. I have two wonderful stepchildren that I adore more than they know. I would fight a grizzly bear to protect them and my precious grandbabies…I would even fight that same crazed grizzly to protect their spouses. That’s what you do for family isn’t it? So, it baffles me that parents who have been blessed with the precious gift of children and family are fighting so hard NOT to protect them with scientific solutions such as masks, social distancing, and vaccines.

But beyond being baffled, I’m starting to get angry. If one more person cries, “my body, my choice” I’m going to point them towards Texas. That argument just doesn’t carry weight. Yes, the US is one of the freest in the world, but we have laws and limits. But even if we didn’t, what about your moral obligation to the person standing next to you in the line at the bank? It’s called social responsibility; “an ethical theory in which individuals are accountable for fulfilling their civic duty, and the actions of an individual must benefit the whole of society. In this way, there must be a balance between economic growth and the welfare of society and the environment. If this equilibrium is maintained, then social responsibility is accomplished.” (Source, Wikipedia entry regarding Social Responsibility. Used my critical thinking skills to look that up when I couldn't remember the exact definition.)

Oh, and before someone argues with me that the current vaccines, masking, and other scientifically based methods for preventing the virus aren’t necessary because they aren’t 100% effective, sit your happy butt down and listen. NO medical treatment is 100% effective. Would you tell a diabetic not to take their insulin injections because the insulin doesn’t completely prevent diabetes, or some people still die from diabetes complications? Or tell a cancer patient not to take chemo or radiation because some people still die from cancer despite treatments?

As I said at the beginning of this post, I’m not very smart, but I do know enough to tell you why it is raining AND I know to come in out of it, despite what my mom thought. COVID is the rainstorm. Think about it.

p.s. As I was finishing this up and posting, the local news just gave a statistic that makes me want to cry: Only 1/3 of the citizens of Whitfield County where I live have been vaccinated. Hamilton Hospital shared that 80% of people admitted for COVID are unvaccinated, 93% of those in ICU are unvaccinated, and 92% on ventilators are unvaccinated.

As I said the other day, if I am wrong, please educate me. But know this, if you are going to educate me, bring verifiable data from universally trusted sources.

 

 From September 11, 2021

It’s no secret to anyone that knows me for more than five minutes, I am an emotional person. I feel unhappiness, joy, longing, inspiration, determination, fear/anxiety, pride, hurt, inquisitiveness, et.al. deeply. Like on a soul level. And generally, if I am feeling it, it is reflected on my face. In the case of grief and sadness, it’s usually seen in the form of tears as they roll down my cheeks.

I fought those tears this morning as I watched the 9/11 Memorial and the reading of the names of those who were lost. I was holding it together fairly well, but when they read the name of one of the youngest victims of that day, I lost my composure. He wasn’t the youngest, but at three years old he was one of the youngest. Three. Years. Old. In practically the blink of an eye, a lifetime of possibilities was lost. What would he have grown up to do?

Never forget. As if any of us who lived through that day can? (Yes, I know "Never Forget" is more of a sentiment for the children of today, like my precious grandbabies. They weren't born, so 9/11 for them is akin to what Pearl Harbor is to me.) I’m generally good at explaining how I am feeling, but today I am struggling. I didn’t lose anyone directly that day; my family, friends and colleagues were all safe afterwards. Those around me, the same family, friends, and colleagues, weren’t as blessed. For them I grieve. For them, and our nation, I grieve.

The media talks often of the sights and sounds of that day. The sound as the first plane slammed into the first tower, then the second. The collective gasps of onlookers. The sounds of ambulances, firetrucks, and all sorts of sirens. The sound of the explosions. The sound of creaking as the buildings gave way and crumbled into a smoking heap. The sight of smoldering wreckage in the field in Pennsylvania. The fires and chaos at the Pentagon. The looks on the faces of those trying to help, desperately trying to save at least one life. The horrifying sight of people hurling to the ground having chosen to fall to their deaths rather than be burned alive.

During this morning’s memorial, they interviewed a firefighter who survived that day. He talked about not just the sights and sounds, but the smell. It must have been horrific. He described it as a mixture of death and destruction. It must have been acrid. He said for him, that smell has stayed with him for twenty years.

For me, it was the sounds of that day that stay with me.

I can still tell you where I was and what I did that day. The day started out bright and hopeful. It as my first day as a team lead for a company I had worked at for nearly two years. I was once again working for the manager who hired me, one of the best managers I ever worked with. I was dressed up in my conservative dress, with my comfy flats so I could walk the floor (it was a call center,) and I was tugging at my panty hose. My only concern prior to 8:46 AM was somehow managing to make it through the day without my panty hose falling. At first I was oblivious to what was transpiring outside the cubicle farm I was sitting comfortably in the middle of. I noticed the phone queues went from usual morning busy to not busy. Then, nothing. My desk phone rang.

It was my now ex-husband calling to tell me that a plane hit the Trade Centers. Not much was known at that time. I tried to pull up a news site online, but none responded because everyone else who weren’t close to a radio or tv was trying the same thing. As the morning progressed, news trickled in. People gathered in the cafeteria and breakrooms scattered around the building, watching the TVs for updates on what was happening. Every other day you couldn’t hear those TVs because of the non-stop cacophony of chatter. But that day it was silent except for the occasional gasp as some lurid detail or awful image was shared.

By the end of my workday, as I headed home, the world seemed eerily silent. Unnerving. I never really cared much for silence before that day…I always seemed to have music or chatter in the background. I have come to appreciate the quiet as I have aged. As I sit here now, with nothing but the sound of a humming AC unit, the gentle swoosh sound my O2 concentrator makes, and the clacking of my fingers on the keyboard, the stillness and the quiet are comforting. As I drove home from work that afternoon, there were a lot fewer cars on the road. There were no trains running (we lived close to a set of frequently used tracks,) and the sound of planes traveling overhead was gone. My radio, which I normally turned up as loud as I could, was off. Odd how those everyday sounds become part of our world and we really don’t notice them until they aren’t there any longer.

I think it is that way with people as well.

So here I sit in silence, pondering. On 9/11 the world felt like it might end, and in a way it did. On 9/12 a groundswell of patriotism and unity started growing, the proverbial something good from something bad. When did we lose that? Folks seemed to have more compassion toward their neighbor. Unity was the name of the game. We’ve lost that common bond. Can we get it back, or have we let our own internal divisions drive us too far apart to ever find common ground again? Was I simply too naïve twenty years ago to see that those divisions were still there, covered only by a false sense of unity and patriotism?

Pray for the lost today. Pray for your neighbors, especially the ones you don’t like. Pray for the ones you love, including yourself. And no matter if I am one of those neighbors you don’t like, or I am amongst the ones you love, pray for me. Because I will be praying for you as well, regardless of which category you fall within.