Posted on 09/19/2001 2:11:43 AM PDT by dandelion
"You know, I've always thought that the Military might be a good career anyway."
The shining blonde hair bobs as if to punctuate my daughter's words; her tapered fingers pluck at the red-white-and-blue bracelet on her arm. The bracelet, one of many she and her youth-group members have made for the Firefighters of New York City. The bracelets they have made to link them to the tragedy of September 11, 2001. She continues: "I want to fight for my Country."
Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, child of my body and soul - the daughter I dreamed of when I was but a child, come to glorious life. When I was four, I heard the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing "Aura Lee"; in my mind, I saw the "maid of golden hair" and I knew she was my daughter. Years passed, and the vision never left me. Then one day she sprang from my body in a gush of blood and water, and I sang to her the song even as she drew her first breath. Now the golden hair glistens in the street lights by the church as she continues her thoughtful dialogue; for a minute the night becomes very still; my heart is beating, but I can no longer hear it...
I don't talk as she continues, but the voice inside me is growing louder. "She is a singer, an artist, a flower. She has not yet had her first real date. She is my daughter." In silence I drive around the lake as she speaks of the events of the week, the fears she harbours, the hopes she has for a bright future.
Not my daughter, please. Not my lamb to the bloody Taliban; murderers of women and children, haters of all that is female, all that is Christian, all that is good. What might they do to a woman, a soldier, a woman who fights for freedom? My mind plays back the video of the Christian aid workers, now prisoners of the Taliban, female fountains of blue shawl unrecognisable to anyone except to their pleading parents. I thought of the Afghan woman desperately hurrying to the doctor after dark with her ill child - shot by the Taliban for being out without permission. I think of the thousands and thousands of screaming women, children, men flying through the air in fireballs, incinerated at their desks, stabbed to slivers by knives of terrorists. What might they do? Nothing more than they are doing now...
My Husband chokes at the thought of his Princess as Soldier: "I will go, not her". My Husband; Father to my children, sole provider, soul comforter - will these monsters take him too? All those families wailing across my Nation, ash and soot and the sackcloth of grief for their companions, gone... will I join them in that most intimate agony?
Why me? Why not me?
My daughter pleads her case: "I don't want Danny to have to go to war." Danny - Red Chief incarnate, only three. She doesn't want her little brother to know the horrors of war, but wait - that's what I want for her. For him too. But so did mothers and fathers want it for the innocent children weeping aboard the hijacked airplanes. I can only tell her we will pray about it, give it to God, listen to God. He has the answers, and we are going to seek him as a Family.
That evening we hold a family prayer service. Our altar is our dining table, laden with objects I need to touch. My father's Navy pin, worn as Pearl Harbor was announced: he was no older than my daughter. My Grandmother's photo, with frilly dress and curled hair; she was herself in the WAAC that same war, serving with her grown sons. My Great-Grandfather's civil war photo, Confederate cap on head; his grey eyes see me, see past me. I need these things now, these people now.
My Daughter, my little Son, my Husband and I don our crosses, and light the candle. My Husband then clears his throat, and begins to read the passage he has chosen in secret. "Listen to me, you that follow after righteousness, you that seek the Lord: look unto the Rock from which you are cut, the Quarry from which you are hewn". (Isaiah 51.:1) Suddenly the message is clear. I push these precious tokens out onto the table, aware of more than the faces at the table, now illuminated. "This is the rock from which we were cut - you are children of Warriors. They are watching us, our children are watching us. We do not know what the future brings, but God is with us and we must not disappoint Him - or Them." All our eyes turn to the items on the table, and we find They are looking back at us.
It is no accident that we are here, in this time; it is our time. This is our time to prove what we are made of, to reveal the Rock from which we are cut...
Thank you for posting this, and God bless America.
Supporters rally for their presidential
candidates in Dallas
11/12/2000
By Kim Horner / The Dallas Morning News
On one side of Main Street, about 100 Gore campaign supporters
waved signs that said, "Keep counting" and "No fuzzy votes."
Across the street, about 50 pro-Bush campaign demonstrators carried
placards with messages such as: "Bush won, let's move on" and "Give it
up Gore."
Activists for Vice President Al Gore and counterprotesters for Gov.
George W. Bush peacefully chanted, sang and displayed signs for more
than two hours in the overcast weather Saturday afternoon near the John
F. Kennedy Memorial downtown.
Hundred of motorists joined in the demonstrations by honking or giving
thumbs-up. Tourists stopped to watch and snap photos.
Cliff Pearson didn't have to speak to get his point across. Like several
others at the event, he had red duct tape over his mouth.
"Americans' voices have been silenced by red tape," he explained, adding
that the Electoral College needs to be reformed. "The will of the people is
that Gore has won."
On the other side of Main Street, Becki Snow marched to a different
tune as she beat a makeshift drum.
"I want a presidency by election, not litigation," said Ms. Snow, who
organized the counterprotest. She said she and others were wearing
yellow ribbons around their arms because they "feel like our Constitution
is being held hostage."
[Remainder clipped]
Does she freep? If she is anything like you.....I'd like to meet her.
Excellent piece, Mrs. Snow.
bump
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