Perfectly Purposeful by Rebekah Danaher Anderson

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you..." Jeremiah 1:5

From the mouth of the ancient prophet Jeremiah, God's truth was proclaimed - that from the depths of eternity God foreknew each and every life that would ever exist. Since the first seeds sprouted in the belly of Eve, every child conceived since has Divine intent and purpose. King David sang, "You have been my God from my mother's womb." (Psalm 22:10) Even before any of us are fully conscious of a purpose, God has indeed created and ordained a plan for all.
And yet, last week I noticed an article that was circulating the Internet, written by two Italian researchers, promoting "after-birth abortions." They argue that an infant immediately out of the womb has no more faculties or awareness of life than the "fetus" that previously would have been a candidate for abortion. Since the baby is unaware of its potential and not yet "formed any aim" for his or her life, these researchers suggest that the baby can and should be killed before its awareness develops. The authors claim at the very outset that "fetuses and newborns do not have the same moral status as actual persons."
And it's not just children with abnormalities. Even healthy children would be victim to the same fate, should they be unwanted by the mother. Infanticide isn't a new concept and the debate in certain philosophical and ethical circles has been going on for decades, particularly in regard to "quality of life" issues. That's sick enough. But what really alarmed me about this article was that one of the main defenses for their thesis was that having a child with a disability has the potential to be an "unbearable burden for the psychological health of the woman."
Essentially, the authors say that a child with Down Syndrome or other birth defects could be a detriment to the lives of family members. They write, "Therefore, we claim that killing a newborn could be ethically permissible in all the circumstances where abortion would be. Such circumstances include cases where the newborn has the potential to have an (at least) acceptable life, but the well-being of the family is at risk."
The WELL-BEING of the family is at risk?!?! Yep. That's what they wrote. Thankfully, this article has been met with widespread outrage and its savagery condemned. But I personally fell on my face before God begging Him to have mercy on a human race where sin and self-worship have so corrupted our sense of goodness that two people in the bright of day would dare put such thoughts into writing. I know most people would share my horror, but I pray we continuously call out evil when we see it and that we never waver in our defense of the defenseless. Life is precious. It comes from the very hand of God Himself. Honestly, I admit, there was a time not long ago when I quaked at the thought of giving birth to a child with special needs. I felt in no way equipped to handle that challenge. But a few months ago God turned my heart upside down and I came face-to-face with a reminder that no life is irrelevant. Let me tell you the story....

This past Christmas, while at the mall waiting in line to get my children's photo taken with Santa Claus, I looked up and straight into the dark, beautiful eyes of a boy named Anoop. I say boy, though his stature and dark stubble placed him perhaps in his 20s. But everything about this man was boyish. He stared at me unabashed and then stared down at my children. A broad grin spread across his face. His unrelenting gaze was a bit disarming, especially in a society that is often in too much of a hurry to make eye contact. I looked past him to his mother standing in line with her husband. She gently turned her son away from us as he leaned in closer to gape at us. I had guessed by now that this precious boy probably had the mental capabilities of a small child. "How old is he?" I asked his mom as Anoop moved closer to Santa Claus. "Twenty-three," she said. "But he's never stopped believing in Santa. We've tried and tried to tell him but he won't believe us. He LOVES Santa Claus." She looked at her son with such tenderness that the mother heart inside me squeezed and tears gleamed in my eyes. What a woman. Here she was, in the middle of the day, standing in line with a bunch of squirming toddlers so her adult son could experience something special. I could see Anoop getting more and more excited for his turn to meet Santa. He paced a little and as he stepped up to the jolly fat man he laughed and clapped and then turned a little bashful - pure delight on his boyish face. I studied that young man and I considered that perhaps he was living a gifted existence. What may clinically be diagnosed as a disability or deficiency was manifested here in a gleeful, delightful human being. I thought instantly of the passage of scripture where Jesus tells us that we adults need to become like children to enter His kingdom. To become like a child. What does that mean? Free from cynicism, free from pride, full of faith! Before Anoop and his family walked away, I said good-bye to his mother. "He blesses you, doesn't he?" I asked. "Yes, he does," she answered with a smile. Far from worthless, this special guy rocked my day. Far from disabled, this boy enabled me to see God in a situation where some might say God was absent. I felt like God placed Anoop and his mother in that line in front of us for a purpose. I've always believed that we're all perfect in God's sight, but that day I needed a special reminder. See, at that moment, I was carrying in my womb my own boy. A boy with Down Syndrome.

But I didn't know it yet. I had just been to see a specialist that morning. The doctors were concerned about the way the baby was forming. I was terrified. A few weeks earlier Elliot and I had been celebrating the news that I was carrying twins. I was over the moon for joy. Then the heart of one baby stopped beating. The babies were fraternal so my doctor explained it was possible for the stronger twin to survive even as we watched the other baby disappear. I begged the Lord to let us keep this baby. The heartbeat was strong. I prayed and prayed. You know what, I even told God that I would take any challenge, anyone, even a baby with Down Syndrome. I actually spoke those words. I have no idea why I prayed that. I don't say that to sound like a super mom. I don't think I'm particularly strong or capable or patient. Sometimes I feel like I'm the worst mom on Earth and here I was telling God I would take a baby with special needs. Years earlier, the idea of giving birth to a child of special needs would have been a nightmare. But God had taught me a lot through the loss of three babies to miscarriage and now and I was desperate to keep this baby, come whatever! Did I ever think he'd actually grant me that prayer? No. The specialist that morning had put my mind and heart at ease. Everything that had looked concerning earlier had vanished. The baby looked perfect for 10 weeks. I saw tiny arms flailing and a head bobbing on the ultrasound screen. My heart soared. I skipped off to the mall. I met Anoop. I praised God for the good news I had been given. "But," I whispered to God. "I would take an Anoop in a heartbeat."

One week later, at 11 weeks, I was in the same exam room sobbing, raising my voice to heaven, asking God why He had taken another of our babies. The baby was gone. The heart had stopped. Somewhere within those seven days, its life had left mine. I didn't have any answers and neither did the doctors. The ultrasound pictures the week before had been perfect. I grieved hard. A few weeks later I went to see my doctor. She swiveled on her chair and looked down at test results and then up at me. "It was a boy. He had Down Syndrome." Stunned silence. Then I shook with tears. Me? I'm not in that "demographic" to have a Down Syndrome child. I couldn't believe it. That prayer I had whispered once had been answered. I don't know why God chose to answer that prayer and not the rest of it. I'm not holding my little boy in my arms. And I won't until I meet him in heaven. I wish I had some understanding. But what I do understand deep down inside, to my very core, is that every life has meaning and value. I believe God walks us through trials to grow us, to perfect us, to make us more like Him. God used this experience of loss and a seemingly insignificant meeting with a boy to challenge me to live what I always claimed I believe. Was I willing to walk the walk? My purpose in sharing this isn't to seek sympathy for myself or to sound so high and mighty and holier than thou that I'd have been a willing servant to care for a person who likely would have needed intensive care. My intent is to encourage you all with what God has shown me. That it's not up to me to decide who is valuable. That's it's not my choice who God plants in my womb. Choice sounds like a funny word in the discussion. Not one bit of it was my choice. If I'd had my choice in the last three years, I would have four other children here on Earth. No one has any right to take validity from a life God created. I believe He created Anoop whole, 100 percent for the life He intends him to live. For professionals to assess what qualifies as a meaningful life is dead wrong. Let's never forget it. This doesn't mean life always is going to be easy. I'm sure Anoop has bad days. I know families raising children with special needs have bad days. I've had bad days. You've had bad days. But we can trust that God created us all in His image and is working out a perfect plan for each of us. Let's lean on that perfect plan. Because in His perfect plan, I went to the mall to see Santa and I met Anoop. :-)

WHILE SHE IS BEING MADE IN SECRET

A handful of Illinois State Representatives, Republican and Democrat, have united to sponsor a bill called the Ulrasound Opportunity Act. This bill, if passed and enacted,

“provides that at any facility where abortions are performed the physician who is to perform the abortion, the referring physician, or another qualified person working in conjunction with either physician shall offer any woman seeking an abortion after 7 weeks of gestation an opportunity to receive and view an active ultrasound of her unborn child by someone qualified to perform ultrasounds at the facility, or at a facility listed in a listing of local ultrasound providers provided by the facility, prior to the woman having any part of an abortion performed or induced, and prior to the administration of any anesthesia or medication in preparation for the abortion.”

This bill has caused quite a stir and is being decried as a violation of a woman’s right to an abortion even though no one is denying anyone anything. In fact, rather than denying, this bill aims to give the mother one last opportunity to consider the ultimate consequence of her act of aborting the pregnancy. Instead of being denied knowledge, this bill gives a mother as much “informed consent” as any patient gets when having to determine a course of action relating to a medical issue. Certainly this is a just, positive, and compassionate way to holistically consider the best course of action for mother and child. If a cancer patient were about to make a decision regarding the right course for treatment of a tumor, I would assume that a scan of the affected area would be a natural part of the consultation. Considering that by seven weeks of gestation the baby’s brain is growing by 100 cells per minute and given that a baby is much more than a tumor, an ultrasound consultation just seems like plain ole’ good medicine. You would think.

Many years ago, before I had children of my own, I would spend my Saturdays in front of one of the many abortion clinics in Houston, Texas, hoping to talk to the women arriving for their abortion appointment. Usually, the woman was accompanied by a boyfriend, or a father, or both. I couldn’t help but notice that the men seemed to be in control of the situation. In one particular instance, a father and boyfriend, each holding the arm of a young woman, angrily flagged me away as they propelled her forward toward the clinic door. The men clearly wanted to make sure that I not have a chance to encourage a change of heart. That scene is still etched in my memory. It was hardly the picture of a woman in control of her body. Sometime later she emerged from the clinic, sobbing, and was once again propelled past me and into the back seat of a car where she curled up in a ball and cried. I can’t help but wonder if she would have found the courage to stand up to the men in her life if she had been given the opportunity to view an ultrasound of her developing baby.  Just maybe the natural attachment to the baby would have overridden her fear of a future as a single mom without the financial and emotional support of the father and her family.

Twenty-one years ago I made an appointment with my obstetrician after confirming that I was pregnant with my fifth child. After the exam, my doctor, for the first time in our relationship, told me of the prenatal testing that was available. I was dumbfounded for a split second and then my anger got the best of me as I told him that there would be “no reason to have that testing unless I was planning on aborting the baby should there be abnormalities and since I wouldn’t abort under any circumstances, he could keep his tests.” It was the doctor’s turn to be dumbfounded by my anger at which point he gently told me that he was obligated by law and prudence(to avoid law suits) to inform all patients of the availability of these tests so that the pregnant woman would have access to all the options for her and her child. The irony here is that according to current pro abortion propaganda, it is a good and just thing to require doctors to offer their patients prenatal testing to determine if there are fetal abnormalities, at which point the most likely reaction would be the mother opting for an abortion. However, these same pro aborts do not see the compassion and justice in requiring a doctor to offer the mother the opportunity to glimpse into her own womb and behold the flesh of her flesh for just one moment before issuing the final death sentence. Would it be so bad if the mother elected to continue the pregnancy?


For you formed my inward parts;
    you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works;
    my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
    intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
    the days that were formed for me,
    when as yet there was none of them.
Psalm 139: 13 - 16

WORDS MEAN THINGS

I think about words and their meanings quite a bit. I regularly digest political commentary, right and left, and find myself irritated by hyperbole and the perverting of the language for the sake of ideology which is why I was so impressed and moved by Patrick Reardon's comments on Psalm 12 in his book Christ in The Psalms. This and other recent articles on language in the culture at large, prompted me to finally post Reardon's complete essay with his permission.

Note: At about Psalm 9 the Greek Orthodox Bible parts with the Hebrew Scriptures on the numbering of the Psalms. The Western/Protestant Bible is consistent with the Hebrew, therefore, Psalm 12 is actually Psalm 11 in Reardon's book.

Christ In The Psalms


By Patrick Henry Reardon
Psalm 11 (12)

Save Me O God, For There Is Not A Godly Man Left

 The idea is now common that the primary purpose of speech is communication, the sharing of ideas, impressions, and feelings with one another. Language is currently considered to be, first of all, social and therefore completely subject to social control. Human speech is widely interpreted as a matter of arbitrary and accepted fashion, subject to the same vagaries as any other fashion. Thus, the senses of words can be changed at will, different meanings being imposed by the same sorts of forces that determine whatever other tastes happen to be in vogue. Words become as alterable as hemlines and hats.

According to this view, words are necessarily taken to mean whatever the present living members of a society say that they mean, so that the study of language really becomes a branch of sociology. In fact, sociology textbooks themselves make this claim explicitly. Moreover, this notion of speech is so taken for granted nowadays as nearly to assume the rank of a self-evident principle. Nonetheless, it is deeply erroneous.

It is also egregiously dangerous to spiritual and mental health, for such a view of language dissolves the relationship of speech to the perception of truth, rendering man the lord of language without affirming the magisterial claims of truth over man. Declared independent of such claims, language submits to no tribunal higher than arbitrary social dictates. Human society, no matter how sinful and deceived, is named the final authority over speech, which is responsible only to those who use it, subject to no standards above the merely social. That is to say, in this view words must mean what people determine them to mean, especially such people as cultural engineers, political activists, feminist reformers, news commentators, talk-show hosts, and other professionals who make their living by fudging the truth.

This current notion of language was well formulated in the declaration of the proud and rebellious in Psalm 11 (Hebrew 12), in a passage manifestly portending the mendacious times in which we live: “With our tongue we will prevail. Our lips are our own; who is lord over us?”

How different is the view of the Bible, where speech is not regarded, first and foremost, as a form of communication among human beings. In fact, Adam was already talking before ever Eve appeared. Human speech, that is to say, appears in Holy Scripture earlier than the creation of the second human being, for we find Adam already naming the animals prior to the arrival of the marvelous creature that God later formed from his rib.

At the beginning, before the Fall, Man was possessed of an accurate perception into reality. He was able to name the animals because he could perceive precisely what they were. His words expressed true insight, a ravishing gaze at glory, a contemplation of real forms, so that the very structure and composition of his mind took on the seal and assumed the formal stamp of truth. Human language then was a reflection of that divine light with which heaven and earth are full. The speech of unfallen man was but the voice of vision.

This primeval human language, the pure progeny of lustrous discernment, flowed forth already from the lips of Adam prior to the creation of Eve, who heard it for the first time when her husband, awaking from his mystic sleep, identified her and told her exactly who she was: “You are bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.” Human speech was already rooted in the vision of truth before it became the expression of human communication.

Moreover, the Fall itself, when it came, derived from that demonic disassociation of speech from truth that we call the Lie: “You will not surely die.” Eve’s acquiescence in that first lie was mankind’s original act of metaphysical rebellion. It had more to do with the garbling of Babel than with the garden of Eden. It was human language’s first declaration of independence: “Our lips are our own; who is lord over us?”

Just as truthful speech streams forth from vision, springing from the font of a pure heart, so lying is conceived in the duplicitous heart before it issues from the mouth. Says Psalm 11: “Each one has spoken follies to his neighbor, deceitful lips have spoken with divided heart.” The situation described here is so bad that one despairs of finding any truths left in human discourse: “Save me, O God, for the godly man has disappeared, because truths are diminished among the sons of men. . . . The wicked prowl on every side.”

In contrast to these varied, seemingly universal lies of men stand the reliable words of God: “The words of the Lord are pure words, smelted silver purged of dross, purified seven times.” In this very unveracious world we yet trust that, though heaven and earth pass away, His words will never pass away.

THIRTY YEARS AGO TODAY

                                                            

By the time John and I had settled into our new house in Houston, Texas, I was ready to start a family. It was 1979 and now that our only major expense was our mortgage payment, the road was clear and the quiver needed to be filled. Our first attempt at being fruitful and multiplying had ended in an early miscarriage so I was anxious and insecure about the next pregnancy.



Within a few months I was pregnant, sick, and tired. Very tired. I could eat a good breakfast and reasonable lunch, but by dinner I couldn’t look at food. For some reason the only thing I had a taste for at night was oatmeal. I couldn’t stand the smell or sight of meat as it was cooking, so John dutifully made me a bowl of oatmeal every night after work. I couldn’t even drink a cup of my beloved coffee in the morning. I would carpool with the girls from work, but if I wasn’t the one driving I would fall into a deep, drooling, sleep.



At the third month of pregnancy, I had to quit work. I was exhausted. All of these extreme symptoms seemed to bode well for a healthy pregnancy and I began to pray for twins. I don’t know why, but the Lord laid it on my heart to pray for twins. By the time I was about five months along, I looked to be seven months. Could it be that God was answering my prayers?

My days were spent doing light chores, walking our Irish setter, and taking frequent naps. I was thankful that I had quit my job so that I could follow the rhythms of my body and do what I needed to do for the health of my child. The further along I advanced in the pregnancy the more attention I drew from people who were sure I was about to go into labor. When I informed them that I was only seven months pregnant, they sometimes backed away from me as if I were not in my right mind. A neighbor and experienced mother of twin boys warned me consistently that I was having twins.



My doctor begged to disagree with me and my opinionated lady friends, and conceded the possibility that I was having an “ouch” baby, not twins. After each visit at my obstetrician’s office, I would lie in bed and feel my abdomen for baby parts. By my count there were far too many feet and other lumps.



By the middle of the seventh month I was unable to do much around the house and I was experiencing severe pain in my diaphragm every evening. I couldn’t get the doctors to take this seriously. They thought I was having indigestion. This wasn’t indigestion and I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle my otherwise competent doctor. Finally one morning I couldn’t stand the pain anymore and in anger I told John that if he didn’t get the doctor to figure out what was wrong with me, I would divorce him. John called the office and repeated my threat at which point they made arrangements for me to have one of those new-fangled ultrasounds.



Off we went to a tech center somewhere, into the office of a female technician from India. I only mention her nationality because I find east Indians to be very humorous and the heavier the accent, the better. As she began the process of looking for an unhealthy gall bladder, WHICH IS WHAT MY DOCTOR THOUGHT WAS WRONG and for which he ordered the ultrasound, she asked, “Did they tell you that you were having twins?” To which I replied, “No. They said it was just a big baby.” She began muttering derogatory things about the stupid doctors, but I don’t remember what she said because I wasn’t sure if John was going to faint.



After a few minutes of disbelief, my Indian tech told us that she could see one baby was definitely a girl, but she could not determine the gender of baby number two. As we left the building, John told everyone we met in the elevator that we were having twins. Once home we called my mother who immediately booked a flight to Houston to help me prepare for two babies. That night was the last night of pain. The next morning I could tell that Baby A (Rebekah), head down, had dropped, making room for Baby B (Rachel) whose head had been causing all of my pain.



Four weeks later, I entered the hospital to be induced. My blood pressure was too high and I was full-term. As I lay in bed watching the Yankees in the World Series, my water broke and labor began. My body went right into hard labor with no breaks between contractions. After five hours it was decided that I needed a caesarean section seeing as they could not control my blood pressure. I had made John vow that he would not let them do surgery on me, but by this time in the torture I couldn’t wait to get knocked out. When I came to, I was the mother of two girls, one 6 pounds, the other 4 pounds, 14 ounces. Rachel was the runt and spent the night in the incubator, but was soon placed in a normal crib.

It is said that when we pray, it is not to conform God to our will, hoping to get what we want from Him. We pray so that our will might be conformed to God’s perfect will. There is no reason in the world for me to have suddenly felt compelled to ask God for twins unless the compulsion originated with God first. He knew I needed those girls. In a way they were the visible representation of the salvation that had come to me three years before. A sign and a seal of being born-again in Christ.

Since that morning of October 21, 1981, there has never been a day that Rebekah and Rachel have not blessed me. There has never been a day of strife between my daughters and myself. Life couldn’t be more blessed than when children love their parents as much as their parents love them and demonstrate that love in their trust and obedience.

I am acutely aware that I really don’t deserve the life I have lived and the love I have received from my husband and my children. God’s grace is sufficient for me and sometimes it is overwhelming. Rebekah and Rachel, I love you more than you could know. May you have the joy from your children that I have had from you.

Twenty-five Years Ago Today

 John Danaher has spent a good deal of our marriage on the road visiting customers, usually at gas processing or window manufacturing plants. I could put my finger on a calendar from days gone by and there is a possibility that he would have been on a business trip on that day many years ago. I do know for sure that on October 2, 1986, John was in Louisville, Kentucky, visiting a customer. How can I be so sure? Because he was squeezing in his last business trip before the birth of baby number four, due around October 18th, except baby number four, now known as Matthew John Danaher, decided to arrive early sending all of us into a panic.





Matthew had tried to get out one week earlier, but that proved to be a false alarm and a foreshadowing at the same time. We worried that I might not make it to the end of John’s last, long trip and we didn’t. Rebekah, Rachel, and David were asleep when the pains began. I called my mother to take me to the hospital, my neighbor to babysit the kids, and John to complain about his not being home. We arrived at Christ Hospital where they prepped me for my 3rd C-section because even though the doctors were OK with a normal birth, Matt was breach and not wanting it any other way.



Everything went smoothly. The darkest of my newborns was brought out to his Grandma Marilyn where she exclaimed, “Finally, my Italian baby!” These days when Matt grows out his substantial beard, which takes about two days, my father refers to him as Omar.



So John high-tailed it home to his second son, now part of the rebuilding of the Danahers of Wenona, Illinois. John’s dad, John Sr., had been the last of the descendents of the men who had migrated from County Limerick, Ireland. But John had married Rosemary Cassidy and in no time they had 5 boys and 5 girls. Those five boys have begotten 10 grandsons, thereby continuing the Danaher name, so all is well.

Matt has been one of the most low-maintenance kids I have ever met. He loved his family, but all he cared about was being with his brother. By the time he was two, he would wake in the morning, come running into the kitchen and ask, “Where’s David?” This was the beginning of the contrast between the two brothers. David, like me, was always up and moving early while Matt, like John, could, according to my father, “Sleep on a picket fence.”



One day he came in from outside and proceeded to gather a paperclip, rubber band, the dislodged trigger from his toy gun and some other odds and ends. I asked what he was doing and he announced that he was going to fix his broken rifle. Pretty impressive for a 3 year old.




At the end of each year, John would have to tally our healthcare costs for each child, and although Matt always seemed to have a perpetual runny nose, we hardly ever had any bills for him. He never seemed to ask for much. He and David loved their Legos, but as long as he had his brother he was content. Matt also displayed a streak of stubborn loyalty. In 1992, this 6 year old, from the back seat of the car, rebuked me when he found out I was supporting Pat Buchanan against President George H. W. Bush in the Republican primary.

All of the kids had to take piano lessons, but by the time Matt was being instructed he had already become familiar with the pieces of music from listening to his sisters and brother practice. Our piano teacher was slightly frustrated because he wasn’t really reading any notes. He just picked it up aurally. He then proceeded to learn the mandolin, guitar, and Scottish snare drum for the bagpipe band in which his sister and brother were members. Over the years Matt has proved to be quite the musician. If I had let him, he might have eschewed higher education in favor of trying to make it in the music industry, but I had spent his childhood hammering home the rule that he had to complete a college degree and so he did.

My fourth child, my second son, is making his way in this world and his dad and I couldn’t be more thankful that at the age of 25 he holds fast to the faith of his fathers and seeks to serve Christ. My only prayer is that God will teach him that the Chicago Bears are not worth the torture he allows them to inflict every Sunday.

We love you Matthew. Happy 25th Birthday.

 

ANNIE GET YOUR GUN

 Very few national and international events in my life have captured my attention enough to justify my interrupting my schedule to sit down in front of the TV to watch events unfold in real time. So few that I can remember most of them. The assassinations of the Kennedys would have been the earliest in my memory. More recently, the storming of the Koresh compound in Texas in 1993, the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building by Tim McVeigh in 1995, and of course 9/11. Sandwiched in between the Kennedy murders and Waco were the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles in 1992. Watching the complete disintegration of law and order was unnerving and instructive at the same time.

I think of those riots often and have had a nagging feeling that I should write down my thoughts on what I learned by watching the news coverage of the mob violence. The convictions I have in favor of an armed citizenry were solidified during the Rodney King riots. As usual life gets in the way of chronicling until something else occurs that washes over me like ice cold water. That something was the terrifying events in London this past week. Watching England’s complete breakdown of law and order brought me back to the L.A. riots. Now I have to formulate my argument.

We all know that if the United States Government wanted to send troops and tanks into our streets to subdue the population, suspend the Constitution, and establish a tyranny, it could. Most of us were around when the ATF decided it had no other option than to invade David Koresh’s compound in Texas for the purpose of releasing women and children who the Attorney General believed were being abused at the hands of the Koresh cult. It doesn’t matter how many shotguns, rifles, and handguns you own, they are no match for the power of the federal government, assuming the feds could convince the military to go along with the plan.

No president, left or right wants to be the One who dispenses with the most profound document on human rights ever written by men for the sake of every individual created in the image of God. No one wants that historical legacy. So, if you were of the persuasion that citizens don’t seem to be as capable of self-government as our founders believed they could be, and therefore you believed the citizenry needed greater control by a massive central government, you would want the consolidation of that control to be the result not of a bold power grab, but a benevolent response to the citizenry’s cry for help due to desperate circumstances.

Now if the citizens are individually well-armed, such an outcry for a suspension of rights would be a long time coming. The illustration of this is exactly the vivid memory I have of watching one news report of the Rodney King riots in L.A. The video clip showed a business owner (if my memory serves me right, he was the owner of a gas station) being brutally beaten on the street by a gang of thugs. As this was happening, a police car drove past the gang and victim, but the officers DID NOT STOP to assist the man. The police car was not traveling at a high rate of speed and the officers were well aware of what was happening.

Why didn’t the police stop? Maybe they were overwhelmed by all of the violence and were required to proceed to another more desperate situation. I don’t know for sure, but anyone who remembers those days of rage remembers that the L.A. police were overwhelmed and unable to defend the citizens.

The only people who avoided a violent beating and the loss of their property were those who WERE armed and willing to shoot at the barbarians. Contrast the above scene with the more rewarding scene of the Korean gun shop owners who were loaded for bear and ready to shoot to kill. And they did. And they survived. And if I remember correctly, they were dragged into court for their actions. Ultimately, I believe they were exonerated of any wrongdoing, but the mere fact that they were considered lawbreakers at all is a travesty.

Who would be more likely to beg for military intervention in our neighborhoods during an uprising of the “feral” children as they have been called by British journalists? The well armed and trained self-governing citizens or the disarmed and neutered citizens, trained only in dependency on the paternal government, the creator of the “feral” underclass to begin with. Freedom comes with responsibility and responsibility preserves freedom. I may have come to the end of my trust in the ability or even the intention of the local, state, and federal authorities to protect me and my family.

England’s recent riots were more disturbing than any so far in the Western world. The people of England are indeed neutered, impotent, and therefore, at the mercy of the feral youth on one side and the dazed and confused authorities on the other. The politicians in England are already talking about being more concerned for these poor youths and the frustration that caused all this violence. After several generations of government chasing God from the public square, promoting sexual libertinism, purposely eroding the institution of marriage and then funding the consequences through social programs, the members of the Ruling Class in England seem to want to throw more fuel on the fire by throwing more money at the same social programs that have created this permanent underclass.

Here at home it is only a matter of time before the political propaganda of the Obama Administration, the Democrat Party, and the liberal media has its intended effect on the underclass in America. Constantly beating the drum of how the Tea Party Terrorists want to take from the poor to give to the rich will eventually foment violence toward, not the truly rich , but the middle class business owners, who in comparison to the average unemployed welfare recipient, look to be wealthy. When it comes to coveting your neighbor’s goods, everything is relative.

In conclusion, when push comes to shove, and the pot boils over onto the streets, and the already lawless juveniles just down the road from my middle class neighborhood decide to help themselves to my “wealth,” I intend to be prepared so I won’t have to depend on an overwhelmed police force and forfeit my rights for peace and safety.

THE FIRST THIRTY-THREE YEARS ARE THE HARDEST

On July 22, 1978, Father Robert Verstynen married John Danaher and Gina Moran at St. Bernadette Church in Rockford, Illinois. That was 33 yrs. ago and we haven’t looked back, mostly because we haven’t had the time to look back.

John and I had dated for about 18 months when we started discussing marriage. The one sticking point was my intention to become a Chicago Police officer. I had taken the civil service exam several years before and had recently completed interviews and a physical exam. I was scheduled to report to the Academy in the fall. John wasn’t so sure he wanted his wife to be a police officer. I wasn’t so sure we could survive on his salary as a Catholic school teacher and football coach. He compromised by agreeing to look for a job in industry.

It didn’t take very long for him to land a job with Union Carbide. Now it was my turn to compromise. We would have to move to Tarrytown, New York, in order for John to spend one year training to be a specialty chemical salesman. He needed to be in Tarrytown in six weeks. The dilemma was whether to marry quickly or after his year of training.

John’s proposition was to go ahead to New York to train and I would stay behind to plan the wedding. He reminded me that “absence makes the heart grow fonder.” I reminded him that from my perspective, “out of sight, out of mind.” He compromised.

So, we never formally engaged since I did not want him to spend money on a diamond ring. I didn’t see the point. We had limited resources and a wedding to put together in six weeks.

Right off the bat, my parents suggested the wedding be held in Rockford, home base of the Danaher clan. Since there were so many of them (John has nine siblings) and so few of us (I have two), it made more sense for the Moran clan to do the traveling. That meant John and I made all of the wedding arrangements on weekend trips to his parents’ home.

We paid for the cake, the flowers, and the photographer. We kept the guest list to immediate family and a couple of best friends. The wedding would take place at the Danaher’s parish church of St. Bernadette, with their favorite priest Fr. Bob Verstynen officiating. Fr. V also did some counseling with us on the weekends. The hall of choice was the Knights of Columbus and we ordered the prime rib dinner at $7.50 per plate with an open bar.

I wore my prom dress which was white and my sister, the maid of honor, wore one of her dresses from a dance she had attended. John and his brother, the best man, wore suits. There was no agony over the music for the ceremony. In 1978 you just went along with the program already established by the church’s musicians. It wasn’t particularly memorable, but it was stress free.

Finally, once dinner was over, the entertainment was provided by the Danaher siblings who never met a gathering for which they didn’t want to sing something. A good time was had by all and when my father paid the bill of $496.00, he looked at my sister and brother and said, “You two are getting married just like this.”

Our life together has taken us to New York, Texas, and back to Chicago. We have raised and homeschooled five blessed children and are now enjoying the role of grandparents in the lives of our four grandchildren. It has been a time consuming and expensive enterprise that has left little for those finer things in life, but John and I have never swayed from the understanding that our children are a blessing from the Lord and our treasures are in heaven. This makes deprivation of those so-called “finer things” barely noticeable.

Whenever John is engaged in a conversation about marriage and family he loves to make the joke (at my expense) that “the first 33 years are the hardest” and “I married her for better or for worse and I know those good days are coming.”

In truth there have been skirmishes, but never difficult times. It has been said that the best thing a man can do for his kids is love his wife. This is true. Conversely, the best thing a man can do for his wife is disciple their children and teach them to respect their mother. John is the best husband because he is the best father and believes every word God has given us in the Scriptures by which we must live. He took seriously St. Paul’s admonition in Ephesians 5 to “…love your wives as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” Every night after work he spent the entire evening playing with the kids. After baths he would spend another hour reading or telling them stories, just like his grandfather Cassidy had done for him.


Our life has been blessed. Marriage and raising children is an endeavor that succeeds best on a rock solid foundation in Christ with a good dose of humor added on a daily basis. I hope the next thirty-three years are just as "hard" as the last.