Author Archives: Connie Pease

Stones and Castles

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When I think of scones, lemon poppy seed comes to mind. Amazingly enough, some people come up with something entirely different. No, not blueberry.

They think of a stone: specifically a stone that was stored at a town in Perth, Scotland, named Scone – the Stone of Scone.  As with things of this nature, different sources both agree and disagree with one another. And whether or not it’s a tale or quite real, the story of the stone is curious.

Remember the Biblical account of Jacob? He was the one who gave and as well as he got when it came to deception. But he was raised to know God, and on a trip to escape the result of some of that deception, he spent one night using a stone as pillow. I know. I’ve always thought that would be the last thing you would use as a pillow, but I suppose if you were propping yourself up rather than lying flat, it could serve the purpose. You can daydream about it if you like.

Jacob actually did dream – only he dreamed that God told him He would give him and his descendants the land he was sleeping on, and that those descendants would be as numerous as the dust of the earth and live all over the place. Here is the first place that this blogger differs with some of the accounts. Some people say it was then that God told Jacob that a company of nations and kings would come from him. His DNA would see the world! Actually, that part comes later when Jacob returns that way and God changes his name to Israel. Maybe the timing doesn’t matter to you. I’m just throwing it in for your consideration. Anyway, as you recall, Jacob saw angels ascending and descending on a stairway to heaven. He woke up, anointed the stone with oil, and named it Bethel. This was a memorial stone to mark the time he received the promise of God in a dream. Here is another part of the story, that diverges from what I’ve always thought. I thought he left it there as a memorial marker, but some sources claim it ended up in the possession of his sons and became the coronation stone for all the kings of Judah. Others say it was the coronation pillar referenced in regard to Israel’s kings (Judah and Israel were a divided kingdom after Solomon, as you’ll recall).

According to one legend, it remained in Jerusalem until 586 BC. when it was taken to Ireland by the prophet Jeremiah. So the story goes, he also brought Tea Tephi, who was an heiress of the Davidic line to marry into the Irish royal line. The Irish apparently do have a stone they call Lia-Fail (stone of fate or destiny) that some believe to be the very same one.

It was used as a coronation stone for the Irish kings for over 1,000 years. Scotland invaded, and the delightful fellow who wanted to be crowned king of the Scots-Irish asked to borrow the stone. (I think of jewels, gold, crowns, and maybe a jeweled sword when I think of a coronation. The stone, however, is apparently a very big deal. I must admit, if it truly is Jacob’s stone, it is a very important artifact. And if, as the royalty believe, it ascribes them their kingly position, then it deserves honor, not a blogger’s snarky comments.) But, no. The new Scots-Irish king not only borrowed it, but kept it. It was moved to Scone which is where we get that charming rhyme – the Stone of Scone. So now every king of Scotland used it as a coronation stone, meaning it sat under their chair when they became king. Why under a chair? I don’t know. To lend authority to the throne? (At this point, I’m thinking of the story of The Sword in the Stone, and I do wonder if the author knew this story I’m sharing and if the sword only able to be pulled from the stone by the rightful king isn’t a sort of hat tip.)

In 1296 Edward the 1st of England conquered the Scots and took the stone. He had it housed in Westminster Abbey in London. He even had a coronation chair built around it.

Even though the Scots and English were united, the stone stayed put. Kings and Queens of the United Kingdom were crowned in the very same chair. Some believe the Davidic royal line was preserved in this way. A side-note, if I may. Having learned of some recent behavior of royalty, I’m guessing their concern was more cosmetic than honorable; unless, of course, they involved themselves in the occult, which is a whole other matter. Moving on.

In 1950, some university students broke in and smuggled the stone back to Scotland, believing that bringing it back was a right and symbolic act. But in moving it, the stone was cracked, and it broke in two. It was repaired using 4 metal rods, then hidden.

You would think the people of Scotland would be grateful, but they were angry, so the students eventually moved the stone to the alter of Arbroath Abbey where Scottish independence had once been declared.

When Elizabeth was crowned, authorities returned it to UK in time for her coronation. Then back it went to Scotland to be loaned for future needs. That seems like a decent compromise.

Ah. Ah. Ah. Not so fast. Upon examination, this stone was found to be made of sandstone from Scone, and the metal rods were only 3 in number, not the original 4 used to repair it. It was also found to be lighter than the original Stone of Destiny. Augh! What’s this trickery?! The stone used for the coronation in the United Kingdom for Elizabeth was, in fact, a fake stone. Those who take this sort of thing to heart believe, as a result, that Elizabeth was technically never crowned officially in eyes of God. And following that, all acts of Parliament have been fraudulent, every authority that comes from the Queen is fake, and judicial systems (even overseas) have been fraudulent since they are registered through the British Accreditation Registry (what we know as the BAR), and the whole legal system is trashed.

Sigh. If said stone hasn’t continued the line of royalty, it seems to have continued the line of deception – if you believe the story of the stone in the first place. It appears there are plenty of people who do.

Fortunately for the Scots, they’ve kept lists of complete genealogies of their kings (as they claim) back to the time of the stone. Why does it matter? Because they believe the stone belongs to them, hence, a kingly line. I won’t argue. I, myself, have some Scots-Irish-Welsh in me. But I wouldn’t blame someone without that sort of claim for being a bit miffed.

As I think over this storied history, I wonder two things: First, does a special stone make someone royal? I don’t want to dismiss important things having to do with tradition, etc. I’m just wondering. My admittedly incomplete research suggests that some believe it is a portal (Some people believe portals to supernatural entities exist in certain places on the earth and make revelation from those places more accessible.) to heaven. The account of Jacob’s dream would back that up. But if this is truly the case, is heavenly revelation given to someone – a king or queen – who isn’t given to reverence of God (in truth, not mere verbiage)? And secondly, isn’t the one referred to as “the stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone” the true King anyway?

Have a great week, dear readers. And rock on!

Images: megan-allen-YjiQSp9ftDM-unsplash-scaled.jpg; ben-guerin-Y96OcAtUWw0-unsplash-scaled.jpg; https://kaldanis.blogspot.com/search?q=stone+of+scone; Genesis 35:10-15; Genesis 28; II Kings 11:14; Mark 12:10; couldn’t resist

Don’t Panic (conclusion)

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Clouds began to gather so innocently that I didn’t notice, but by the time an hour had passed and I was beginning to think it was time to go back, the sky was filling up and the innocent fluffy clouds I hadn’t at first noticed were turning a bit gray. After another rambling speech into my walkie that resulted in nothing but silence from wherever the other one was (probably now deceased in a junk yard), I hurried back on the path and made pretty good time. I congratulated myself on recognizing an unusual bush I’d taken note of when I passed it before, but, weirdly enough, spied another one just like it at the bend of my track. I retraced my steps and noticed another unusual bush that apparently wasn’t quite as unusual as I had originally believed.

It was then that I felt a few pangs of doubt, then a few drops of rain, then a sudden downpour. Looking left and right, I ran into the torrent and noticed a fuzzy shadow ahead. As I approached it, I was grateful to make out a cave of sorts; not a huge one by any means; rather, a sort of respectable indentation into rock. Breathing heavily, I reached it and slumped onto its floor, my back to the wall. If daylight held, maybe I could find my way back after the rain lifted.

It was beginning to grow a bit chilly and I thought of how the weather in these parts can drop fairly quickly this time of year. Tamarac National Wildlife Refuge seemed to me now to be not the 43,000 acres of fresh air and sunshine I had entered, but 43,000 acres of not so great possibilities. Pheasants, then fox, then bears traipsed through my thoughts. I closed my eyes in an effort to rest and regroup, and when I opened them, there were two strangers standing in front of me. I hadn’t heard a thing.

I believe it was at this point I was concluding it was time to panic, not that I had to think it through. Some things in life come as naturally as – well let’s just say prayer in a foxhole and leave it at that.

“I told you I heard something!” the woman said, giving the follow beside her a friendly nudge.

He looked at her with delight and disbelief, and they started muttering things I couldn’t understand. I caught odd-sounding words and phrases like torsion field along with algebraic-sounding back and forth chatter that I didn’t care to dissect.

Soon the man looked at me and asked about my half of a two-way radio I was holding. I told him it was a birthday gift and how, with good intentions, my friend had remembered the “radio” part of a comment I’d once made about wanting to go to Radio City Music Hall. The two friends apparently thought it extremely funny and I was relieved enough at their demeanor that I chuckled along with them.

“Would you?” he asked.

“Would I what?”

“Like to go to a concert?”

I shrugged my shoulders. He couldn’t be serious. We were in the middle of nowhere and the temperature was dropping. “I guess.”

“It is her birthday, after all,” the woman remarked.

“Hm. Seems like a fair exchange,” the man said.

The woman raised her eyebrows, but he ignored her and held out his hand.

“Mind if I look at it?”

“This?” I held out my walkie.

I can’t really tell you how it happened: Just that one minute I was sitting in a cave and the next minute I was taking in an Il Volo concert at Radio City Music Hall. Granted, I was still rather damp and underdressed (to say the least), but it was a concert I’ll never forget. The minute it ended, I found myself standing at the edge of the Tamarac National Wildlife Refuge with enough daylight left to walk back to town.

Some people use their money to travel the world. Some travel only in their imagination. Me? All I know is that one autumn evening I seem to have traded my half of a two-way radio for a concert at Radio City Music Hall, and I’m more than satisfied with the trade.

Image: pexels-brett-sayles-8170126.jpg

Don’t Panic

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I was pretty sure it was time to panic. I’d exhausted all other options.

Retracing my steps? Of course, and it had made things worse. I now had no earthly idea where I was.

Praying to the Good Lord Almighty? Obviously. And we can agree He heard me. What He decided to do with the desperate request was a whole other matter. Take Jonah, for instance. I honestly don’t know if he had a wife, and I don’t suppose he made it home in time to ask her to work on those nasty whale vomit stains before they were a hopeless case (which – of course they were), but suffice it to say, the Good Lord Almighty took a different perspective than Jonah did. Of the sense I do have, it is enough to know that my perspective diverges from holy more often than not. Need I say more?

Yelling for help at the top of my lungs? Mmm. Well you have to understand it’s usually a bit complicated to take that option. After all, maybe someone kind and helpful would hear me, but then again, maybe someone unhelpful and not at all kind would hear me too. Or maybe only one of them would hear me and how would I be able to tell if the one who came was the kind person or the one who was not at all kind? Or maybe kind and unhelpful? And, in trying to be helpful, they told someone who was of the not at all kind type? You see? Things aren’t nearly as easy as one might imagine.

And believe me, I was imagining enough for you and me both. You see, it all started with a birthday present. I had years ago expressed interest in going to Radio City Music Hall (an unattainable extravagance for someone like me) and one of my friends with a long, but not terribly detailed memory made the major effort of fulfilling my dream. That is, she got the radio part right, and I had to give her major credit for that. I unwrapped one part of a two-way radio. Ahem. One. And I think it was used. No one ever claimed my friends and I were flush with cash. Every one of us was more of what you call thrifters – or, more honestly, scavengers. But I was curious, and I thought to myself that I might just find the owner of the other part of a set by walking around and speaking into my walkie every so often.

The following day was beautiful, and I was in the mood for a long autumn walk. I ended up at the edge of town and proceeded down a road where I found myself at the edge of Tamarac National Wildlife Refuge: 43,000 acres of fresh air and sunshine; and, I might add, a reasonable place someone might carry a handheld radio. I admit now that sometimes things that seem reasonable at first, don’t seem at all reasonable after awhile.

to be continued…

Image: angel-velez-bJTiBslE8RY-unsplash-scaled.jpg

A Change of Pace

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They walked past the house every day at the same time: the man with green tennis shoes and the Scottie dog. He didn’t scroll through his phone like some walkers did, and the Scottie dog was content to match his master’s pace without pulling on the leash. And then one day they didn’t.

It gave the man who noticed them every day pause. He’d grown used to taking a second sip of decaf and looking up from watching the news at exactly 6:10 every evening. He barely noticed he did it. But this evening was different. This evening he noticed because the man with the green tennis shoes and the Scottie dog didn’t walk by. He put down his coffee, rose from his chair, and peered out the window; then, seeing nothing, he hurried down his front steps and looked both ways down his street. No one. Nothing.

The next night, the man took a first sip of decaf and sauntered over to the window. No reason. No man with green tennis shoes. No Scottie dog. It shouldn’t bother him. It really shouldn’t.

The third night, the man didn’t pour a cup of coffee at all. He didn’t turn on the news. He sat on his front steps and watched the street. A neighbor slipped quietly into his driveway and tinkered on the new car he’d purchased just a month ago. Another neighbor stared blankly out her picture window, petting the cat in her arms.

The fourth night, the man gave a tentative wave to his neighbor who happened to, once again, be tinkering with his new car. The lady with the cat in her arms mistook his wave, and waved back.

The fifth night, the lady ventured into her yard – minus her cat. She set out a card table with lemonade and lemon cookies. The man tinkering on his car went over and chatted as he ate a cookie.

The sixth night, the three neighbors found themselves once again in the lady’s yard eating cookies and drinking lemonade and talking all at once. Did something bad happen to the man with the green tennis shoes? What about his Scottie dog?

More neighbors congregated on the seventh night – so much so, that the lemonade pitcher had to be refilled three times. And then – then a hush fell over the crowd as they watched the man in the green tennis shoes and his dog stroll by. He waved. They all waved back. And that, dear reader, is how a week’s vacation can help a neighborhood.

Image: pexels-ray-piedra-1456738.jpg; beverage-black-and-white-black-coffee-2360894.jpg; imagesX15DD7Q1.jpg; pexels-julia-zolotova-1320997

Newton’s Third Law

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https://www.bitchute.com/video/w2SFI0HLlDze/

The Importance of a Good Boat

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I like the quiet slice of a canoe through the water. The soundless dip of the paddle and the barely-there ripple of the water is a peaceful ballet. But when the water’s rough or if you have a partner who tends to lean over the side and doesn’t care to sit very still, you don’t really want to be in a canoe.

It’s the same with a kayak. The people who like kayaks seem to enjoy close proximity to the water, don’t mind a sunburn on the top quarter of their legs, have a pretty dependable paddle stroke, and can actually get out without getting wet. That is to say, kayaks are great for some folks, but not for others.

Now a speedboat is another thing entirely. You can really move in those things! You can see more of a body of water in less time as long as you don’t mind your hair blowing every which way and didn’t plan to carry on a conversation at normal decibels.

Some people like pontoons. No comment.*

But often boats are used for more than leisure. Ask anyone who fishes for a living or who is part of the Navy. They would tell you that the type of boat is determinative to success. And although the design might change, a good boat has been an important and dependable means of moving to a desired destination since the Stone Age.

There was a time in our nation’s history when its citizens were fighting heart and soul for freedom from King George. They didn’t want his unreasonable regulations. They wanted to be in charge of themselves while he wanted to call the shots. We haven’t thought about it for a long time – too long – but subjugation manifests in all sorts of ways. Some people are serfs without even recognizing it. Imagine that.

Anyway, by Christmas of 1776, some of the soldiers were ready to go home. They were cold, without adequate winter clothing, low on food, and lower on morale.

Thomas Paine penned his now famous words around that time, and General George Washington asked that they be required reading for every soldier.

These are the times that try men’s souls; the summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.

The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. Think about that for a minute. The men who read it did. Those words gave heart to men who were war-weary battling for freedom. What they needed was a miracle. Freedom is sometimes preceded by miracles. God is, after all, the freedom-giver as well as a miracle-worker.

Their General planned a surprise attack at a time when the enemy would least expect it: Christmas night. They couldn’t use just any boat. They would need strong cargo vessels to cross the Delaware. The weather than night was awful – a regular hurricane of a storm: driving rain, sleet, and snow. But it was a victory or death situation, and cross they did despite below-zero temperatures and the storm.

What an inspiration they are to us these hundreds of years later! They persevered despite privations, fear, and exhaustion. They continued on because some things are more important than uncomfortable feelings or distress. They kept going at the behest of an admirable General and the dictates of their own conscience. Bravery is a righteous quality, and there are times when shrinking back is – I’ll let you ponder that. Our entire nation has them to thank for the freedoms we have known since birth.

And the boats which carried them across?

DURHAM

* No, actually I do have a comment since I was corrected after this essay was first written. Apparently, I missed the point of such crafts: party! Okay. I can get on board with that. Quote: from The American Crisis by Thomas Paine; image: Washington Crossing The Delaware https://img.wallpapersafari.com/desktop/728/410/20/56/yOSaQE.jpg

A Last Look At The Upper Room

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It was clean except for one – no, two things. They were unobtrusive, but caught her eye. On the floor near the wall lay a towel; a muddy towel, now dried. And near it sat a basin of dirty water. Strange things left in such a clean room.

She wandered over to the table. She’d heard the stories. You couldn’t live here and not have heard about the man who said things so remarkable they sent shivers down your spine; who healed – healed! – lame people who hadn’t felt the earth beneath their feet for years, if ever; and who talked with anyone, not just the important or educated or honored. Oh yes, she’d heard. She, herself, had heard from her neighbor’s daughter’s friend about a woman caught in a situation that shouldn’t be spoken of and, instead of hurling accusations with the rest, he had asked some questions that had sent her accusers running. There was something very gratifying in that, though she couldn’t say exactly what.

She’d heard the rumors, too. He had said – reportedly, mind you – that “Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father”. The Father. God! He’d actually said that! That comment right there did it for some people. It was a bridge too far. But others? Not so much. They’d stuck with him. They believed it was true.

And herself? Hmmm. She wasn’t sure. But those healings – you couldn’t deny them. Or the creepy guy in the tombs who was freed from demon-possession. Really. Who does that? Or the huge storm that was stilled in an instant. Seriously.

And now the worst. Because whether you believed him or not, he hadn’t done anything deserving a crucifixion. Those were the whispers spreading through the city. The ones who were offended by his defense of unremarkable, diseased people were crowding together. It’s the way mobs were. And others joined in, of course, because they did whatever anyone else did. They thought whatever anyone else thought. It was almost like they didn’t know they could act or think for themselves.

A loud sound startled her. As it grew louder, she ran to the window and looked out. Oh no! The man! No! NO! Soldiers surrounded him. One of them flicked a whip his way every once in awhile for his own amusement. The man was carrying a cross – those heavy, dirty, terrible, tortuous things. As her breath caught in her throat, he glanced up at her for an instant. And in that instant, her doubt vanished.

Tears started slowly, then ran down her face as her body shuddered with heavy sobs. Why did some people blacken light with dark? Good with bad? What was the point? She wished she could fix it. She wished there was something she could do to chase away the hardened hearts and evil mobs. She wished she could drive them from the whole world, or, at least, from hers. From here. From the street the man with the cross was trudging down.

He was so good. Really good. And kind. And, as she thought about it, one of the purest souls she’d ever known – or at least known about. She harshly brushed her tears away.

Her eyes roamed the room in a last once-over. Ah. Here was a crumb on the table. Unleavened bread. How could she have missed it? Oh. And a drop of wine. She began to clear them with one swipe, hesitated, and placed them on the tip of her tongue instead. Then she picked up the towel and basin and walked out.

Image: jackson-david-8qudl9pDZJ0-unsplash.jpg; Scripture text: John 14:9 (on second thought, why don’t you read the whole chapter); Image: mads-schmidt-rasmussen-v0PWN7Z38ag-unsplash.jpg

Winds of Change And the Witch

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Rain blew through the forest as the storm tossed limbs and branches in its torrential fury. On through the night the wind blew, lightning flashed, and thunder rolled and crashed. The crack of a birch, weakened by unseen pests eating it from the inside out, reverberated over the commotion as it slammed to the ground, crushing the brush and bushes around it.

     And then – in an instant – it was over. Droplets glistened on both bough and leaf. A nearby river rushed loudly with the memory of the storm just past. A chipmunk’s bright eyes peeked out of its hiding place and a couple of deer took tentative steps nearby. And the oldest tree of the forest seemed to shake itself as the sun caressed its shadow.

It was on that night that a little girl was born. She was given all she desired and more than she needed. And she grew, through the seasons and signposts of life, diligently working toward her goals, finding beauty and glory and seeking more. Always more.

And every year she visited the forest that called to her and spent a day at the base of the old tree thinking – no, pondering – as hope and discouragement, good and evil, light and dark played tag in her soul.

And although myriad paths lay open to her, she considered prestige and power a worthy aim and chose that path which offered most and best. And she got it. For there are in life ways some do not recognize or chose to know; but for those who seek them, their allure calls clearly and relentlessly.

She attended the best schools where she learned to think in the accepted manner; not only learned, but embraced the lessons that scoffed at old wisdom and blessed those that tore its fabric. She acquired beauty at the cost of dignity, fortune at the cost of integrity, and success at the cost of legitimacy.

She followed the clear and relentless path to dark places and shadowy travelers. She made everyone around her a servant and thought of those she did not know, slaves. Others’ lives became a means to an end, and she didn’t hesitate regardless of hurt or harm her actions might cause; until life became as expendable as used package wrapping.

She gave in to gluttony, but was never satiated. Whatever of the many things she’d dreamed and worked to gain were never enough. She began to think of herself as a god, really. No one was higher or should be. She was greater than anyone! Larger than life, even bigger than creation! She had it all and would control it all, too!

And then a storm came; quietly and slowly at first, as some storms do. It continued, and disturbed her. Putting her hands over her ears, she demanded it stop. But the wind rose higher and the rain pelted harder. On through the night the wind blew, lightning flashed, and thunder rolled and crashed.

It occurred to her that the old tree beneath which she had sat and pondered and planned in her youth, and later neglected until it was forgotten, could be a shelter. Running to the forest, she looked but couldn’t find it. At last she was spent. Raging at the storm and any who had the audacity to cross her, she lay on the ground, cursing until the very end. The ground swallowed her weaselly body, and the rain washed away the filth of her life.

And the oldest tree of the forest seemed to shake itself as the sun caressed its shadow.

Images: pexels-pixabay-53459-; pexels-nejc-kosir-338936.jpg; pexels-kyle-killam-106006.jpg; pexels-veeterzy-38136.jpg

We’ve Met The Enemy And He Is Us

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Walt Kelly’s cartoon strip, Pogo, ran in newspapers from 1948 – 1973. And although I was a kid then, one of his cartoons has always stuck with me. The text wasn’t original with Kelly, though. He borrowed the phrase from Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry. After the Battle of Lake Erie, he is reported to have said to William Henry Harrison, “We have met the enemy and they are ours”.

People have differing opinions about what is going on between Russia and Ukraine depending on what they read and who they listen to. Allowances for opinions must be made (believe it or not), especially since none of us fully knows what’s going on. But when denial about bio weapon labs in Ukraine turned into an admission of their existence by Political Affairs Undersecretary of State Victoria Nuland, and we learned that US tax dollars were used to finance those labs, I’d say that little phrase in Pogo might need to be reintroduced.

Some sources say it is these labs (the bio weapon labs financed by your tax dollars) that Russia has been destroying with surgical strikes. Additionally, a Georgian “health center” has been used as cover for US bioweapon research close to the Russian border. At least that is an accusation leveled by Russia’s Foreign Ministry. If this is true, our dear nation is in violation of disarmament agreements. Other sources point back to 2005 when Senator Obama was part of negotiations involving biolabs. In fact, there seem to be a number of countries calling for an investigation – something the US press apparently has chosen to not share. With. The. People. Whose. Money. Was. Used.

We are not the only guilty party, at least according to the Russian Federation’s claim to the UN.  “The Kiev authorities basically agreed to make their country into an experimental platform and use their citizens as guinea pigs.” Again, if this is true, the Ukrainian people have been under threat of bio weapons. What a way to live. Oh – wait.

But the 2014 coup d’etat in Ukraine ousting duly elected officials and installing the current government, a video clip of Senators Lindsey Graham and John no name McCain promising to give top military leaders what they needed to defeat Russia, and that nasty little video clip of Biden actually describing his pay-for-play exchange with, I believe it was ex-President Poroshenko back when he was VP, money-laundering and trafficking (did you read about the 100 trafficked children rescued? I did, but not from mainstream media), lend an unsettling credence to corruption defying the imagination. Corruption of this magnitude appears to reach to dark corners of every nation, and it looks like there will be hell to pay one way or another. It also looks like the USA had something to do with it.

Can I clarify? Just as we are careful to say things like, “not the Chinese people, but the CCP”, can we give our nation the grace to say, “not American citizens, but its corrupt deep state political machine”? Or corrupt cabal? Or maybe not. You choose. We should’ve known. We should’ve known, and we didn’t. But we let things slide that we shouldn’t have – I’ll tell you that much. If you have a lick of moral sensibility in you, you’ll agree.

You know what bothers me most? Our money was used for it, we didn’t know it, and our standing in the world is stained with the sins of those who did.

Sources: https://www.timesofisrael.com/liveblog_entry/russia-wants-un-meeting-over-us-biological-activities-in-ukraine/; https://www.redvoicemedia.com/2022/03/whats-in-the-u-s-biolabs-in-ukraine-pentagon-operated-taxpayer-funded-biolab/; https://russia-insider.com/en/politics/russia-accuses-us-placing-bio-weapons-labs-its-borders/ri8082; Ron Watkins on telegram: Nunn-Lugar Report Aug 29, 2005; https://adinakutnicki.com/2022/02/28/putin-vows-to-crush-child-traffickers-in-ukraine%ef%bf%bc/; https://youtu.be/pYtcXS9zJXo

The Picture On The Refrigerator

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There are un-noted populations in times of war. Invisible, silent people in all nations whose lives are deeply affected walk past us at the gas station or grocery store and park next to us in the parking lot. They have a lot to say about one thing, but talk about other things instead. They don’t directly answer questions. They’ve learned to not mention anything on a calendar or clock, map or birth certificate, base or company.

They walk around with a lump in their throat and a smile on their face. If you push them too far, they might feel like smacking you upside the head. Nine out of ten times they won’t, and you’ll never be the wiser. They cry and pray in private.

They search for the best phone plans in other countries and apply for a passport. They learn which services are most dependable to deliver packages in and out of the country. They celebrate birthdays and holidays with someone missing. They keep their phones with them 24/7.

If you’ve ever hung the picture of a little boy or girl on your refrigerator, ever gone to school concerts and plays and fairs, ever replaced the tennis shoes you bought a month ago because he was growing just that fast, or ever prayed with that little boy or girl as you tucked them into bed, then you must understand that the warrior you envision – the one dressed in military fatigues – might look textbook to you. But to those invisible, silent people, he looks like the picture on the refrigerator.

Sgt. Tim Martin, an infantryman with Headquarters and Headquarters Company of the 1st Battalion, 17th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division, shows evidence of the long journey after returning from Operation Buffalo Thunder II at Forward Operating Base Spin Boldak, Afghanistan, July 2, 2012. During the eight-day mission, Afghan and American forces cleared more than 120 kilometers of rugged terrain and escorted approximately 60 truckloads of humanitarian aid for distribution to the people of Shorabak.