Enough Already: A Response to the Clancy Case, Part 2

Standing Alone

Travel back with me nearly 20 years ago. I’m working in education and have been asked to serve on a panel whose sole purpose is to hear and evaluate a twelfth grader’s senior project. The task is designed to be the culmination of this student’s educational experience. She must pass this hurdle in order to graduate.

She’s supposed to showcase her knowledge of a particular topic of her choosing. She’s expected to conduct herself professionally and demonstrate in depth familiarity with the topic at hand.

The young lady does none of those things.

It becomes obvious within the first few minutes that this presenter doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Sure, she’s nervous; who wouldn’t be? But there are criteria for her to meet, and she doesn’t hit any of them.

It comes time to make an assessment. The student’s instructors have provided guidelines for us to follow. I render my judgment accordingly and deliver a failing grade.

I immediately come under pressure from the other members.

“She has special needs! She has a tough home life! She was terrified to speak publicly!”

On and on the excuses go.

Granted, the student in question does have an IEP (individualized education plan), but the panel has not been instructed to offer any special accommodation due to this fact. If we had been, I would have taken that into consideration.

I hold my ground politely but firmly. I refer back to the written rubric in front of us. I reiterate time and again the ways in which the student didn’t measure up.

The pressure continues. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to change my opinion, everyone decides to break and resume discussion after lunch.

Except it turns out my services are no longer needed after the break. Another educator has been found to fill my position. This staff member rubber stamps the kid’s project so she can satisfy the course requirements.

It’s important to note that the student would almost certainly have graduated with or without my passing her. The only result of failing her first attempt would have been a redo. Much like when I failed my first driver’s test and had to try again.

Yes, I cried when the instructor flunked me. Yes, I had excuses why I screwed up the three-point-turn and didn’t stop all the way at the stop sign. Bottom line: the guy assessing me wasn’t concerned with the reasons for my mistakes. He was charged with delivering a safe driver onto the highway, and I didn’t make the cut.

You’d better believe I nailed those two things next time, and nobody rejoiced more than I did when I got my license on the second try.

I keep flashing back to these memories as I watch the aftermath of the Lindsay Clancy trial. Eleven jurors vote to acquit her; one man stands alone, holding her accountable for her lethal actions. The judge declares a mistrial. The defense attorney plays every card he has: he requests dismissal of the dissenting juror; files an emergency petition with the Supreme Judicial Court; suggests a retrial would constitute double jeopardy; even begs the President of the United States to try to influence the prosecuting attorneys.

Simultaneously, a little thing called juror privacy is on the chopping block. The dissenter’s personal information has been leaked, his reputation called into question, and his family harassed, in what his attorney is calling “a full-frontal attack on the U.S. Constitution.” The man has gone into hiding.

If such strongarm tactics aren’t squashed, we’ll have even more trouble populating juries than we do already, and the trial system as we know it will collapse.

Enough already.

Big Picture

Clearly, there are larger issues at stake than the fate of a confessed triple murderer.

To illustrate, remember the ending of Casablanca? Spoiler alert: Bogie doesn’t get the girl. He sends her packing, literally, back into the arms of her husband. Why? Not because he doesn’t love her. Not because he believes in the sanctity of marriage. His sole reason for sacrificing his great passion is because bigger forces are at play, and they’ll be tipped in the wrong direction if he thinks only of himself.

We could use a bit of that philosophy right about now.

I’ve tried hard to remain objective during the Lindsay Clancy trial. I detailed in part one of this series the difficulty I encountered in trying to formulate my opinion about this horrendous case. Like so many situations, this one is multifaceted and extremely complex.

It’s also heart wrenching.

After studying the facts and the footage pretty meticulously, I’ve finally arrived at the verdict I would have rendered if I were sitting on that jury:

Clancy should be found guilty and held responsible for murdering her children.

The reasons ought to be obvious. Three preschoolers were slaughtered by their mother, who claims a previously non-existent voice told her to do it and then went silent, never to be heard from again.

Misplaced Sympathy

Several jurors who served in the trial gave interviews after the judge declared a mistrial. Their primary goals seem to be a) excusing Lindsay and b) attacking the one juror who refused to vote for acquittal. One actually whined that the lone holdout “had the hardest time getting off the fact that Lindsay viciously killed her children.”

Um, yeah. Details like that used to matter in murder trials. Call me crazy, but justice for victims used to carry as much weight as murderers’ mental health. Go figure.

The aforementioned juror bemoaned the fact that the holdout stood his ground and insisted Lindsay be convicted. She railed that he should “forgetting [sic] about Lindsay killing her kids. Everybody knows it. The world knows it. But look at the doubt. That’s all we need to do to get this woman the help she deserves.” Her final word was, “I will support Lindsay to the end here.”

Apparently, we’ve evolved as a society. We no longer dwell on minutiae like children’s brains swelling and blood vessels bursting while their mothers choke the life out of them. In fact, the jurors who wanted to acquit Clancy complained that the prosecutors spent an overabundance of time on the grotesque details of the children’s deaths.

There’s empathy in action. Let’s not dwell on minor points like an eight-month-old’s “brain [swelling] to the point that it had ‘overwhelmed the capacity of the skull’ and was herniating through its base.” Or blood vessels rupturing from the pressure of those exercise bands, causing pain along with asphyxiation. Or the agony baby Callan likely felt while emergency staff taped needles and tubes and catheters onto his fragile skin to try to save him. His siblings had already mercifully died when doctors inserted intraosseous catheters into the bones of their little legs, but Lindsay’s youngest was still alive when that needle or drill pierced his tiny tibia. The medical examiner testified that doctors “attempted” this painful procedure on Callan. Maybe they tried more than once without success. Maybe it wasn’t having the desired effect, so they removed it. Who knows? What we do know is his little body was poked and prodded and punctured ad nauseam, to no avail.

But why pore over incidentals like the anguish an infant suffers when heroes fight to save the life his mom tried to extinguish? Those particulars should be glossed over so jurors can more quickly attend to the pressing need to acquit.

Remember, we’re here to support Lindsay.

I could have stomached watching the jurors opine about Clancy’s troubled state of mind if they’d given equal time to her dead children. That, apparently, was too much to ask. The overarching concern was and is the wellbeing of a woman who murdered her own babies.  

Societal Rot

Why do I get the feeling we’re entering into Hunger Games territory if we don’t watch our step? Seriously. Are we all that far from there? We have now reached a lower point in our collective thinking than I would have thought possible. We seem willing to throw children to the wolves even – maybe especially –   when those wolves are dressed in their mothers’ clothing.

Take, for example, the hundreds of women who supported Clancy throughout the trial. Go a step further and consider the moms who recorded themselves saying and doing outrageous things to vent their frustration at having to care for young children. My usual M.O. is to insert copious links to verify facts and assertions I make in articles, as I’ve done above. I’m deliberately not doing so here. Those videos are best relegated to the dustbin, unless attorneys retrieve them to prosecute women who make terrible choices.

Age-Old Problems

We’re acting as if mothering were something new. As if legions of women haven’t been doing it since time immemorial. I can get behind the viewpoint that women’s lives have become exponentially harder since society started demanding they be supermoms who bring home the bacon while raising children. I did it and can attest to how hard it is. I can agree that maybe we’ve so skewed the differences between men and women that neither sex has any idea how to behave, and that this blurring of role distinctions can cause confusion and even chaos, both of which may be exacerbated in the aftermath of childbirth.

However, I refuse to dismiss the murder of innocent children as a mere facet of mental illness and call it a day.

Zooming Out

Again, I’m having a bear of a time being objective here. The more I learn about the case, the harder it is not to feel tremendous rage for Cora, Dawson and Callan, while simultaneously experiencing great sadness for their tortured mother. But my own mother’s words echo in my ears. She used to say people who sit on the fence never really take a position; it’s better to pick a side and live with it. Reminds me of the rebuke Jesus gave the Laodicean church in Revelation 3:15: “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot!  So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.”

I must choose a position, and that must be justice for Lindsay Clancy’s children. Because this case matters so much more than what happens to one woman. Whether the 11 jurors who voted for acquittal realize it or not, they’re wielding a wrecking ball – and rather recklessly, in my opinion – against generations of maternal love and protection. Why? Because ultimately, acquitting Clancy will lead to the defensibility of women murdering their children based on hormonal imbalance. 

For example, another juror essentially declared the majority of the panel had an agenda. She then conflated justice for the children with an overhaul of the mental health system serving postpartum women.

Truth really is stranger than fiction.

I’ve spent a grueling amount of hours dissecting the testimony from this sordid case, and one thing that keeps showing up is the expectations and responsibilities placed on jurors, whose job description DOES NOT INCLUDE impacting institutional change. Once the jury veers off into trying to effect outcome for a certain issue, trying to make its mark, as it were – that body has corrupted its one and only function: to consider evidence and make a ruling based on facts.

Besides which, there really is substance to the argument that women can’t have it both ways. Either they can power through hormonal fluctuations or they can’t. It’s one thing to feel lousy, physically and/or mentally, during the hormonal instability associated with PMS, pregnancy, the postpartum window; it’s another thing to act out those feelings in homicidal ways.

I’m not saying anything new here. Many pundits are raising these same alarms because we must wrestle with the repercussions. There’s no getting around them. Either women can be trusted in consequential positions – such as raising the next generation – or they can’t. But it doesn’t make sense to demand equality in the public square, with all the attendant privileges, and then turn around and excuse horrific behavior because hormones are acting up.

More than Enough

I once heard a convicted sex offender state that porn addiction requires constantly new and different stimuli to feed itself. Perhaps we can apply that concept here. Somewhere along the line, people began overemphasizing milestones and celebrating them way out of proportion. Think of the lavish bridal and baby showers we throw these days. Bar and bat mitzvahs that rival weddings, complete with DJ’s, photo booths, chocolate fountains. “Push presents” moms expect in return for giving birth (call me old fashioned, but we used to think the baby itself was the gift). And don’t get me started on kids’ birthday parties, which have gotten staggeringly excessive and expensive.

Enough already.

When we become conditioned to constantly expect bigger and better adventures, it becomes difficult to live in the day-to-day, blasé happenings of life. Not to mention living with the demand to constantly outdo ourselves for every life event.

Perhaps this is part of what happened to Lindsay. She had reached a point where many of her goals had been met. Successful career – check. Marriage to an upwardly mobile guy – check. Three healthy children - check. But when one is always looking for the next captivating experience, it becomes hard to count blessings and realize that this is all there is, and that all there is, is very good.

I know that’s an awkward sentence, so let me illustrate. When my first child was born, my dreams came true. I’ve shared elsewhere that my pregnancy journey wasn’t a cake walk, so giving birth to that little guy with the conehead and scrunched-up face was the culmination of all my hopes. So, guess what I asked when all was said and done?

“Is this all there is?”

The reality didn’t live up to the dream I’d conceived. Besides that, my marriage was teetering on disaster when we became parents. Those disappointments had to be managed before I could appreciate that life could still be very, very good, despite its not meeting my unrealistic expectations.

Things started coming into focus the night I brought my newborn into a support group meeting. I’m sure I was crying over the state of my life and marriage. A wise lady in the room wasn’t having it. She pointed to my little chickee-head (that’s what I called him because, after a bath, his hair stood up like a baby chick’s fur), smiled, and said, “But look what you got.”

So, I did. I looked at that funny little face and realized what I had was very, very good and more than enough. Hard times were ahead, without a doubt, but good times and hard times can and often do coexist.

Another pivotal moment occurred when my kids were much older. My neighbor, Anita, and I were cleaning up after dinner one night. Anita had prepared a feast for us in her tomato-red kitchen, and she and I were scrubbing dishes while the boys tossed a ball around in her backyard. Something about the homespun image of two young guys playing catch while the womenfolk chatted over dishwashing (OK, that’s not politically correct – so sue me) brought a tear to my eye. All I could think of was a song that has come to epitomize my view of life: I Could Not Ask for More. I later danced to that sappy tune at both my sons’ weddings, and it will be played at my funeral.

The Bible expressed this concept long before songwriter Diane Warren did. Listen to the apostle Paul wax eloquent about contentment:

^“But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content.” (1 Timothy 6:6-8)

My pastor preached on these verses last week and this week, emphasizing the importance of finding contentment in the content of our lives. He showed the connection between being content (satisfied) with the content (stuff) that makes up our existence. I think this message should be trumpeted from pulpits far and wide. This simple principle has the potential to save so many from falling prey to the materialism and overdoing that characterizes our age.

Blame Shifting

I can think of one other reason to make our greatest goal to intentionally live in a state of contentment. It goes hand in hand with responsibility.

We’ve seen a cascade of blame shifting in the Clancy case. It’s Patrick’s fault. It’s the doctors’ fault. It’s the psych hospitals’ fault. Everyone but Lindsay is to blame for her actions.

Let’s agree on some indisputable facts. First, the poor woman clearly was having a breakdown. Her medical team certainly dropped the ball in inexcusable ways. I recall similar treatment – or lack thereof – when a family member went through a mental health crisis. I could tell by the hurried and harried approach of the caseworkers – who really did care – that the scope of their job went far beyond the hours they had in a day. Disappointed and disenchanted people are glutting the system (this brings us back to the error of overdoing milestones and resultant ill-preparedness for life on life’s terms), which makes it dangerously hard for practitioners to keep up.

Sadly, this is the system in which we find ourselves; sometimes we have to find ways to get the most out of the least.

Also, Lindsay’s husband was imperfect (whose isn’t?); maybe he was even unfaithful. Again, I can relate to the trauma of a troubled marriage. I can even relate to terrifying thoughts and the Herculean effort it took to do minor tasks like loading the dishwasher and bathing my kids. Because when the brain goes into overload, nothing is easy.

But, when push came to shove, I held it together enough to keep both myself and my children alive, by God’s grace. I leaned hard on the Lord, my family of origin, and professional help (which, by the way, had definite shortcomings).

I also considered the potential consequences that could occur if I didn’t move heaven and earth to fight looming madness.

In other words, I shouldered as much responsibility as I could, while simultaneously sucking every bit of support out of every avenue available.

Bygone Responsibility

But herein lies another problem. We train people not to accept responsibility for their own actions, and when they mess up, sometimes lethally, they claim victimhood. Bear with me as I relate yet another aha moment.

Towards the end of my career, I worked with a student who was pretty much surgically attached to his laptop. The district wanted to harness the utility of the internet while also saving a few trees, so it issued devices to all students and staff. This particular kid had a dickens of a time putting the thing away when the lesson didn’t require its use. One day I lost patience and called him out into the hall for a lecture.

“Listen, friend, why don’t you close your computer when the teacher tells you to? Why do I have to repeat her instructions five or six times, and you still don’t close the darn thing?”

Noting that my frustration was falling on deaf ears, I decided to switch gears.

“OK, how ’bout this? Let’s talk about why it’s important to do the right thing when you’re told to do it. You know not to cross the street when a car’s coming, right?”

Of course he did.

“OK, so what happens if a car’s coming and you’re strolling out into the street, and you don’t see it? The car honks its horn, but you ignore that warning. What would happen if you did that?”

And here, dear readers, is one of the most chilling statements I’ve ever heard.

Without giving it a thought, the child answered, “The car would stop.”

No, my precious middle schooler! That’s the whole point. The car wouldn’t stop. You would become part of the pavement.

That’s where this kind of thinking takes us.

When people aren’t taught to sift through actions and consequences, we have a real problem. When lack of contentment meets lack of responsibility, a painful collision with reality ensues.

So, let’s return again to the throes of daily life. The house needs work. The car’s on the fritz. The kids are being kids. Illness strikes.

Where’s the confetti?

We’re used to parties and over-the-top festivities at every turn. We’re used to participation awards just for showing up and spelling our names right.

I submit that we need to start celebrating the mundane instead of chasing the electric.

Final Thoughts

Now, back to the topic at hand: Lindsay Clancy.

I don’t normally ask this, but if any of my points are resonating with you, please share this article. We NEED to get this one right. We can’t afford to misjudge this case because the stakes are nothing less than our survival as a nation. We must halt the death train here, at the doorstep of Clancy’s confinement. And that confinement must include prison, not just a mental health facility, where she may convince doctors she’s well enough to return to society.

The Clancy jurors described defense lawyer Reddington’s approach as “funny, entertaining, arrogant, but compassionate.” Perhaps they’d have made similar observations about the attorney who defended Constance Fisher, whose kids might beg to differ with physicians who deemed her sane enough to walk free after spending a few years in a mental institution. Fisher had been committed there after drowning her three children. Upon her release, she proceeded to murder the three other children she subsequently produced with the husband who stood by her.

Folks, let’s learn from history. And let’s look where we’re headed.

If a model mother, as everyone describes Lindsay (and I don’t doubt she was), can brutally slay her own children, who’s above suspicion? We begin to suspect everyone. Someone’s having a bad day with her kids in the grocery store, and we wonder if we should call 911. As a society, we’ve been on the alert for years, what with school shootings and killings in the public square. But the Clancy case is bringing distrust of one’s neighbor to a whole new level.

If we’re going to talk about Lindsay’s sanity, let’s talk about the insanity of a society that doesn’t lock the door and throw away the key on mothers – and fathers, for we’ve been down that road far too many times as well – who kill their offspring.

We must view parent killers’ actions as the anomaly they are – the antithesis of filial love – and resist the urge to paint them as excusable catastrophes resulting from mental illness or malpractice. 

We've discussed why insanity-driven acts should not automatically merit freedom for offenders. Wrong is still wrong, regardless of what propelled it. This is especially true when lives have been snuffed out and a criminal's future actions may put society at risk.

Regarding the malpractice defense, why not litigate those allegations as well as determining guilt or innocence of the defendant? Why not hold psychiatric teams culpable alongside the killers who claim the establishment failed them? If malpractice can be proven, those practitioners will have to pay their dues as well.

But we must not bow to the wishes of Lindsay’s cheerleaders, who want her excused due to medical negligence. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

Again, what this all comes down to is having reasonable expectations for life as it truly is. Dirty diapers have always been smelly. Spouses have always been imperfect in the light of day, once the rose-colored glasses are removed.

People used to understand this. They understood that beauty is fleeting, but love can last if true commitment is present. They realized that life is hard, even unfair, and that spouses aren’t there to change this reality, but to simply support one another.

Overblown expectations and unattainable dreams are always going to lead to devastation. A realistic view of life, including what it can’t deliver, needs to be drummed into our children from the moment they can talk.

In part one of this series, I noted that the Lord will sort out truth in the Clancy case; I stand by that. That said, I would add that God expects humans to use the brains he gave them. As I once heard in a women’s conference, if we try and fail, at least we know we tried. If we do nothing, we have only ourselves to blame.

As always, God gets the last word:

“Keep yourself far from a false matter; do not kill the innocent and righteous. 

For I will not justify the wicked.” 

– Exodus 23:7

Intrusive Thoughts: A Response to the Lindsay Clancy Case

C.S. Lewis in the preface to The Screwtape Letters, his fictitious correspondence between a senior devil and his protégé regarding the best ways to lead humans into sin and away from heaven, described the book thusly: “Though I had never written anything more easily, I never wrote with less enjoyment… Though it was easy to twist one’s mind into the diabolical attitude, it was not fun, or not for long. The strain produced a sort of spiritual cramp. The work into which I had to project myself while I spoke through Screwtape was all dust, grit, thirst, and itch. Every trace of beauty, freshness, and geniality had to be excluded. It almost smothered me before I was done.”

Chilling Case

I know what Lewis means. In researching this article, I’ve logged way too many hours watching the Lindsay Clancy murder trial. More time than necessary, and certainly more than was good for my well-being. Since mental health is the crux of this case, keeping mine intact is paramount.

But, like gapers who find it impossible to turn away from a gruesome accident scene, I’ve found myself sucked into a vortex of both horror and fascination while viewing the footage. My mind alternates between sympathy for a suffering mother and dismay at the outpouring of support for a confessed killer. Clancy allies frequently argue that two things can be true at the same time, suggesting it’s possible to be both victim and victimizer. Ultimately, though, responsibility must be assessed and accountability determined.

Bottom line: three preschoolers were killed. By their mother. In their own home.

There must be a reckoning for this evil act.

Tragically, we’ve seen other cases like this, the most recent one just last month. Moms who, for whatever reason, crack under pressure and do the unthinkable. My purpose is not to pass judgment on these women, their families, or the societal system(s) that may have failed them. Truth be told, I’m not entirely clear what my purpose is, as it’s been evolving ever since I first felt led to write about this.

Glorifying Death

I initially intended to discuss how maternal murders highlight the inherent evil that is abortion, and why Clancy supporters are adding fuel to a fire that can’t afford to be stoked.

It’s unnatural for mothers to kill their children. That said, our society has gone beyond normalizing feticide and into the realm of celebrating it, up to and including the point of birth (ten states and the District of Columbia now allow unrestricted access to abortion throughout all nine months of pregnancy).

The related phenomenon of physician assisted suicide, currently legal in 13 states and Washington, D.C., demonstrates the progression of this fatal mindset. There’s something really wrong with incentivizing doctors to kill patients, whether pre-born or born. It flies in the face of the Hippocratic Oath and the reasons people go into medicine in the first place. Everyone acknowledges the barbarity of Dr. Josef Mengele, who conducted “experiments” and even murdered people in the name of Nazi ideology; yet, in the land of the free and the home of the brave, physicians legally snuff out lives with the abandon of kids swapping baseball cards.

And why not? Once life becomes a commodity to be created in a lab, passed around from womb to womb, and measured in dollars and cents, its wonder becomes obscured by its price tag.

As dollar signs mount up, they cheapen the very thing they’re selling.

In such a climate, is it any wonder that post-birth killing would become justifiable in the eyes of many?

While studying the Clancy case, though, I realized others were already making many of these connections.

Monstrous Depression

Not one to revisit well-trodden ground, I shifted gears and decided to relate my struggles with the pregnancy/postpartum spectrum. Before my first child was born, I experienced a miscarriage which left me devastated. I needed surgery to empty my womb. I lost a good amount of blood. My soul felt shredded.

After becoming a mom, I developed postpartum and situational depression – uncontrollable sadness and downward spiraling which my kids and I survived by God’s grace via family, friends and therapists. Proper medication – an issue being hotly debated in Clancy’s trial – played a huge role in my recovery.

The procreation continuum is complex. Conception has its own timetable and very often frustrates or surprises prospective parents. Loss of a longed-for child is heart-wrenching. Birth of a longed-for child is wondrous, scary, delightful, daunting, confusing, challenging, sleepless, and stimulating. “Normal” needs to be redefined repeatedly during this ever-changing process.

In the vast majority of situations, people adapt and life stabilizes. Sadly, though, sometimes things go wrong, and what expectant parents hope for is shattered by emotions beyond the reach of intervention.

That’s my point.

Sometimes things go very wrong.

Altruistic Filicide

The more I read, though, the more I realized emotions surrounding pregnancy and birth are also well documented in connection with the Clancy case. 

I then stumbled onto “altruistic filicide” – the phenomenon of parents murdering their children out of a twisted love for them. Psychiatrists have offered this defense in Clancy’s case, since she claims a voice told her to kill the kids before killing herself so they wouldn’t have to live without her.

But it’s unnatural to murder one’s own children. Murder itself is unnatural. A quick internet search yields words like “unjustifiable” and “unlawful” to describe murder. We’re talking about something outside the scope of rational behavior.

If we can agree on that point, it’s obvious why the altruism claim is so disturbing.

Others may advance this argument, but that’s all I have to say about it in Clancy’s case or any other.

Which still leaves me with, why do I feel compelled to weigh in on this heinous crime?

Morbid Curiosity

I realized my purpose one night when an unhealthy preoccupation with the Clancy murders usurped my sleep and peace of mind. Hour after hour I scrolled through testimony, transfixed by Lindsay’s progression from depression into psychosis and ultimately homicide.

Anytime we plumb the depths of evil, we won’t escape unscathed. Nietzsche understood this when he wrote “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

Corrie ten Boom, a concentration camp survivor, learned this when she witnessed the whipping of a fellow prisoner during morning roll call, the worst time of day. A warbling skylark suddenly “[soared] over the crematorium” while the merciless beating occurred. That same skylark trilled joyful notes at the same time each day for the next three weeks, a tangible reminder that beauty can coexist with wickedness.

As Corrie observed, we must “turn [our] eyes away from the cruelty of men to the ocean of God’s love.” We cannot look full on into darkness any more than we can gaze directly into the sun. It’s too intense. Studies have shown that improper balance of light and darkness is detrimental to human functioning.

Nevertheless, brutality is compelling. That’s why horrific stories make headlines. Furthermore, avoiding atrocity won’t bring justice for the Clancy kids or any other victims. It won’t right wrongs and it won’t change cruelty.

But it may enable ordinary people to fight another day.

We’re limited in our ability to battle villainy. That’s because spiritual forces power wickedness, but humans are just flesh and blood. God’s word gives us instructions about combating evil, and they don’t include ingesting a steady diet of the stuff. Ultimately, it’s up to God to defeat the powers of darkness; we are simply agents in an otherworldly campaign that’s bigger than we are.

Lightly Stepping

That’s why the Bible tells us to walk in the light. This means prayer and Bible study, but it can also include simple changes in daily life.

First and foremost, I can’t let technology hold me hostage. I’ve begun taking charge of my devices - for example, silencing my phone at bedtime.

I take time off to let delight counterbalance distress. After one troubling internet session, I took my granddaughter swimming in sparkling blue water and hugged her close while bobbing.

I divert my mind from hefty subjects. Crosswords, comic strips – anything to shake the weight of the world off my shoulders.

And I live by Philippians 4:8.

Folks, this isn’t denial; we’re talking survival. Jesus said the poor will be with us always. Without taking too many liberties, I think it’s fair to say, so will depravity. There’s nothing unspiritual about letting light shine in the darkness.

It’s a God thing.

And the same God who created light and darkness will separate those entities in Clancy’s case, either now or in the hereafter. If the jury gets it wrong, a weightier courtroom awaits in eternity.

“For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known. Therefore whatever you have spoken in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have spoken in the ear in inner rooms will proclaimed on the house tops.” - Luke 12:2-3

And Yet... Thoughts on Holiday Pain

I remember hearing a missionary give a talk years ago. Addressing the matter of God’s provision, this seasoned servant quipped that, in his experience, God is never late but He’s rarely early.

Also embedded in my memory is this observation from a minister whose church I attended when I was very young in my faith. This gentleman, whose name was David, commented that he often noticed the Almighty “singling him out,” as it were – in a good way. He would come across a passage of Scripture or hear something from the pulpit that seemed to be a “Dear David” message. A piece of wisdom or advice that zeroed right in on whatever he was struggling with or working on in his life.

I’m finding the insights of these two leaders quite relevant during what has turned out to be a very bittersweet holiday season. Don’t misunderstand – I’ve lived through downright depressing, even miserable Christmases. Other people’s choices and acts of God find their harsh way into our lives, despite what our culture tells us to expect during a given time frame:

“Christmas means lights and laughter! Valentine’s Day means hearts and happiness! There’s something really wrong with you if you’re not loving life at this moment!”

As though death, demons, and destruction are any respecters of calendars.

Christmas 2025 finds me straddling the line between joy and pain as I grieve with a dear friend who is presently suffering an unimaginable loss. Others around me are coping with similar sorrows. And, folks, have you looked at the news lately? It’s enough to send the jolliest elf right into a full-blown tailspin.

And yet…

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” – Psalm 45:1

“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” – Psalm 46:10

“He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?” – Romans 8:32

Why these verses?

They’re my “Dear Thea” messages from a Mind and Heart which know exactly what my mind and heart are wrestling with. All three of these Scripture gems showed up in my own personal world MORE THAN ONCE in the past week.

Psalm 45:1:

Write, Thea. I’ve given you a voice and the tools to get it out there. Use them when and how I tell you to.

Psalm 46:10:

Thea, I’ve GOT you and everyone and everything around you, despite how things may look. Trust me, like the song says, and rest in my plan, even when it seems ridiculous to do so.

Romans 8:32:

Thea, if I gave up that which was most precious to me for your benefit, I’m certainly not going to skimp on anything else.

I want and need to be held this Christmas, because I’m trying to hold up my fellow man. I know I’m no Atlas, and I’m not trying to be. But how can a person not offer a hand when one of her companions is in danger of sinking?

And yet…

The Lord makes certain promises about how much reign He will let grief have in our lives.

I’m holding Him to those promises.

So, I’m doing each next right thing I know to do. Since tomorrow is the arbitrary deadline we silly humans have set for ourselves to celebrate the immortal becoming mortal for a few decades, I’m going to take care of some ritual essentials. I’ll finish wrapping my packages. I’ll whip up some holiday recipes. Etc., etc., etc.

But I REFUSE to let said rituals destroy my communion with the One we’re supposed to be celebrating. And I REFUSE to endlessly seek some heartwarming feeling that always eludes and always promises more than it can deliver.

Because the Delivery has been made. It arrived 2,000 years ago in a stable. And it mattered – and matters – more than any Hallmark memory or Amazon drop-off ever could.

Our Savior foresaw the ambivalence we would feel at the holidays and all throughout our lives. He knew expectations would go unmet and joy would be tempered with pain. He felt that tension in His own heart while preparing to give His life for our traitorous race.

And yet…

If the trials I’m facing – and those I’m walking through with people I love – are the chisels that render me more like the Savior I strive to emulate, then I will try to yield to the pain without numbing myself. I’ll keep looking for “Dear Thea” love notes wherever He chooses to drop them. And I’ll keep reminding myself that His mercies will always be right on time.

God bless us, everyone.

 

Rainy Days Ahead: Getting Through versus Going Through

Rainy Days Ahead

That’s the message the bottom right hand corner of my desktop is trumpeting today, complete with a tiny picture of an umbrella.

Rainy days right now.

I would append this statement to the former because my life has been somewhat showery for a while now, with no signs of letting up.

I’m not talking about weather, of course. I’m talking about the pulse of the country and my own personal pulse, so to speak.

When I demonstrated an interest in writing as a young girl, my parents gifted me a little book called The Writer’s Eye. I never read the thing, being ever resistant to learning about the writing craft and much preferring to just do it. That said, I may have finally internalized the idea that, to a writer, everything is grist for the mill.

Such is the case with the notification on my desktop this morning. Those little weather alerts are probably there every day, but I don’t usually take notice. This one for some reason jumped out at me, perfectly characterizing, in my humble opinion, the state of the nation and my particular state at the moment.

Choosing Sun

Before we start tuning our violins, let me qualify my comments. Lest my words seem like a plea for sympathy, I want it known that I’m not feeling sorry for myself.

Well, not too much. It’s a tough habit to break, after all, and at one time in my life, I was a master self-pitier. But in recent years, I’ve come to realize the truth of Viktor Frankl’s statement (emphasis mine): “We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

In searching for Frankl’s attitude quote, I found a mountain of inspiration from this remarkable psychotherapist, including the little gem quoted below (emphasis mine). Little did this Holocaust survivor know how ahead of his time he was, given today’s rampant support for physician assisted suicide. I suspect this brilliant man, who survived horrors that stagger the imagination, would be appalled at the prevalence of so-called “death with dignity”:

“But today’s society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness. If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that an individual’s value stems only from his present usefulness, then, believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler’s program, that is to say, ‘mercy’ killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, or whatever handicap they may suffer. Confounding the dignity of man with mere usefulness arises from conceptual confusion that in turn may be traced back to the contemporary nihilism transmitted on many an academic campus and many an analytical couch.”

These are the kinds of things we need to read to drag ourselves out of the quagmire that sometimes characterizes life.

While I have grave concerns for the shape our country is in and, secondarily, find myself in a set of somewhat dreary circumstances, for once in my life – and maybe this is the definition of maturity – I’m seeing things with a sort of objectivity that encourages me.

For years I’ve been advising fellow believers to try to view things through God’s eyes. “I wonder what God’s trying to teach you” is a frequent refrain from my lexicon. I think this phrase is finally becoming less a platitude and more a reality for me.

What a blessing!

Fifty Per Cent

How on earth did we get from weather reports to percentages?

Trust the process.

A ways back I jotted down notes for a possible blog article – this blog article. I had been noticing silly things that were in the 50 per cent range, satisfaction-wise. For example, I had just replaced one framed piece of art – I’m looking at it now – with another. My desk sits in a sort of alcove that offers a convenient wall which invites decoration. A friend was collecting secondhand items to be sold for a worthy cause, and I saw this as an opportunity to swap one picture for another that I preferred. My friend collected the cash for my discard, and my workspace picked up something more pleasing to my eye.

Except for one thing.

Remember I mentioned that I work in an alcove? Well, my desk is heavy, right down to its glass top, and the computer tower and monitor that sit atop it don’t easily lend themselves to rearrangement.

You can see where this is going.

I didn’t want to do anything silly like ask for help, so I scaled a ladder and hoped for the best.

The best, as it turned out, meant: a) the glass top didn’t break; b) computer components weren’t knocked off; c) picture was successfully mounted; but d) it wasn’t centered.

See what I mean? The angle makes it look crooked; it really isn't. But it is definitely off center.

And you know what?

I’m living with it.

This is actually the second such mounting job I’ve done in recent months which has turned out less than perfectly. Things like this used to really bother me. I would remove nails and readjust (who sees a few extra holes once the art is hung?) until I got it just right.

Such precision no longer holds a place on my priority list.

I don’t want to say I’m too old for that, but, well, you know.

So, I got 50 per cent of what I was looking for. Actually, I got 75 per cent, if you consider that points a, b, and c worked out well, and d was the only defector.

I’ll take it.

I could share other examples where I’m looking to make lemonade out of sour lemons.

Case in point: like many women of my vintage, I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.

That said, I have a few besetting ailments, but in the big scheme of things, they’re pretty manageable. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say, I’m grateful that when one condition flares up, the others – for the moment, anyway – have been remarkably well behaved. So, instead of dealing with arthritic aches along with asthma adventures, nine times out of ten, one is under control while the other is making its presence known.

Again, attitude is going to be key in how I view these things. I can either lament, “Oh, man, this cold is going into my chest, so now I’m going to have to break out the nebulizer machine and pull out all the stops again!” OR I can consider the flip side. To illustrate, I'll refer to a guidance counselor I once knew who encouraged students to take the “at least” perspective when they were feeling upset. For example, “My activities may be curtailed because of this respiratory infection, but AT LEAST I’m walking without a cane for the moment!”

Getting Through versus Going Through

There’s always a valley lurking at the base of every peak. Will we focus on the valley instead of enjoying the peak?

One of my family members has had plenty of adversity. Life-threatening health issues, financial setbacks, devastating family problems. This individual has consistently modeled a “bounce back” response to every challenge. I have watched with admiration the steadiness and resilience which have characterized this person’s response to surgeries, business misadventures, even death (and near death) of loved ones.  

That’s how I want to be when I grow up.

I want to learn to go through life’s obstacles with grace and faith.

I don’t want to just get through things that feel like suffering. I want to go through life’s vicissitudes knowing, as God’s child, I’m right smack in the center of His will, despite appearances to the contrary.

When I searched my blog for an article written back in 2012, entitled Through (which, incidentally, was written during a time of severe testing in my life), I stumbled onto a whole slew of my writings on the same subject. I offer them here in the hope that one or all may lighten the burdens others are carrying.

Because that’s the point, really, when you get right down to it. Like Christian in John Bunyan’s classic Pilgrim’s Progress, we can expect trouble. It’s going to come whether we like it or not. Bunyan knew of what he spoke; he wrote the book during his 12-year imprisonment, during which time he supported his family by making shoelaces.

Bunyan understood the truth of Hebrews 10:36-39:

“For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what is promised. For, ‘Yet a little while, and the coming one will come and will not delay; but my righteous one shall live by faith, and if he shrinks back, my soul has no pleasure in him.’

“But we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and preserve their souls.”

Bunyan’s faith enabled him to live out the truth of Psalm 112:6-7:

“For the righteous will never be moved; he will be remembered forever. He is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the Lord.”

Rejoice, in Spite of…

Rainy days may lie ahead, but so does our hope of heaven. I’m looking for the kind of faith that sustains the pastoral staff at my church. These folks have an uncanny knack for balancing pain and joy, even to the point of advising their sheep to “thank God for everything!”

And they mean everything. This collective group and their wives have experienced plenty of hardships since I've known them. Their resolve never changes. They truly do thank God for everything, ever seeking whatever growth is to be had within their changing circumstances.

Anyone who has been part of a Christian community knows, unfortunately, that the church is a breeding ground for love but can also include betrayal. It’s been said the church is the only army that shoots its own soldiers.

I wish I could prove this sentiment wrong, but I’ve been around too long to deny the truth of its caustic commentary.

I would ask my pastoral team to reveal the secret behind their smiles, but they would simply refer me back to the Book of all books.

They’ve learned not to make their happiness contingent on things going their way. They’ve weighed Jesus’s words and example, put them to the test, and found them more than adequate to catch every tear that accompanies the ministry.

Tears are the stuff of rainstorms, minus the salt, I suppose. They are also evidence of God’s hand in our lives, but He doesn’t leave us to dissolve into them. Rather, in His providence, He allows clouds to break over our lives only insomuch as they are necessary for our growth.

What a savior.

February Part 2

The Demon of Control

In my last post, I worried over things I couldn’t control and fretted over the futile pride that causes me to try to change things/people/events over which I am powerless.

Oy vey, as my father would say.

The Inevitability of Pain

This has been a month of fear and funerals. February seems to have that effect on a lot of us. We slog through wind and ice and cold (at least in our part of the country), and all we have to show for it is another day of the same - aching muscles and weary hearts.

But I mean this post to be hopeful, not despairing.

As I said, my family (and here I mean both biological and spiritual) has been doing its share of grieving of late. Loved ones are either sick – and I mean sick – or have left this world to gain entrance into another. My role in all of this has been more indirect than personal, i.e., I have served as a supportive presence rather than an actual participant. In short, I’ve been shoring up the troops.

Again, I’m striving to be upbeat but…

So far, not so much.

Let me switch gears.

The Value of Accountability

One thing that’s been useful during this period of semi-chaos has been to keep a ledger of sorts. Not to wax political, but I’m thinking of the current administration’s demand that government workers account for their activities on the job. I began tracking my own activities in 2020, when the COVID crisis kept me out of work for about six months. I decided at the outset that I wasn’t going to waste that period of enforced leave. I was well experienced in frittering away down time, having spent many a summer vacation and holiday break wiling away hours and regretting it after the fact. So, this time, when the government and my employer were paying me to “stay home and save lives,” I created a schedule for myself and tried to catch up on things I couldn’t get to during a regular work week.

I drafted a book proposal. The recipients didn’t bite, but them’s the breaks.

I joined and even cohosted nightly prayer meetings. Recalling the impact of corporate prayer in the wake of the 911 attacks, my prayer partner and I drilled down in this particular area. Our efforts resulted in the formation of a weekly women’s Bible study. I can’t say how much these activities impacted others, but yours truly gained a lot of spiritual ground.

The Power of Community

I reached out to other members of my church to see how they were faring during this frightening time. There wasn’t much I could do to help, as we were all simply trying to keep our own heads above water, but it gave me a chance to go through the church directory and make contact with hitherto unknown attendees.

My Aunt Carole had a wonderful practice of checking in often by phone. She lived at a distance and didn’t drive. Her health was only so-so, meaning she couldn’t do much but encourage. But encourage she did. Regularly. Even forcefully, in the gentlest way possible, if you know what I mean. If a few calls went unreturned, a more urgent request for an update would ensue.

This lady understood the power of caring and made it a habit.

Aunt Carole’s earthly body has left this world, but her lessons have not. On days when I feel lazy or uninspired, even defeated, reaching out to others can bring me a sense of purpose. The vacuuming may remain undone, but another soul can be touched.

While I’m on the subject of aunties, Aunt Doris promised to be there for me after the death of my one remaining parent. Like Aunt Carole, her age and limitations made it unlikely that she could do much more than listen and maybe offer a few words of counsel. She did, however, coin a phrase which made its way into my head, my heart, and even my novel: “Sometimes you just need to talk to somebody with white hair.”

I realize this last comment is a bit of a digression from the topic at hand, since Aunt Doris’s phone hugs began long before the COVID era. Citing author’s privilege, I’m leaving it in anyway because it reinforces the importance of community, and not exclusively from one’s biological family.

Community matters now, it mattered during COVID, and it will matter whenever and wherever we find ourselves. My friend, Tina, figured this out long ago. It’s taken me a little longer, perhaps because I’ve been blessed with a close family. Having something as a given can make for a sense of entitlement, or rather, expectation that it will always be there. Taking for granted, I suppose. Tina has experienced many losses and thus realizes the need to not go it alone. She is and always will be an example of casting one’s lot with others and living by that concept.

The Slow Demise of Pride

All these goals are worthy and good, but just when I’m feeling indispensable (yeah, right), I fall hip deep into a flareup of an underlying condition which had been behaving itself for several months. Out comes the cane and in go the NSAIDs.

Those palliatives may be little, but they pack a big punch.

It’s not the pain I mind so much. I know how to do rest and relaxation, but I’m not too keen on helplessness. Check that. I’m not helpless; I’m simply less able to be helpful, at a time when family and friends are in need of all the help they can get.

Apparently, my heavenly Father feels I need a lesson in humility.

So be it.

Accordingly, on this final day of February 2025, I offer up the power I can still exercise in the midst of powerlessness. Power to call on a Power far greater than any I could boast. Power to relegate pride to its rightful place – as so many people I love are involuntarily having to do right along with me. Power to slowly but surely admit that divine power overpowers, overshadows, and overcomes any perceived power I’m blessed to possess.

What a Savior.

Heel Heal Part 2

Beloved readers, I wanted to add an addendum secondary to receiving some feedback on this post. 

Apparently, I left the impression that I actually believe what my head sometimes tells me about "staying on God's good side" so as to avoid heavenly punishment. Let me state for the record that the God I serve does love me unequivocally, regardless of my missteps. While He does chasten His children, He does so lovingly and for our good. His goal is to train and mature us, as opposed to getting a kick out of punishing us.

In addition, we need only consider great martyrs of the faith and the persecuted church to realize that, quite often, bad things do happen to good people - people who, to our finite minds, surely deserve better.

Sadly, sometimes I allow flawed thinking to interfere with what I know to be true.

Thank goodness I can turn to the Scriptures to clarify bad-think when it rears its ugly head!

Now, back to the original article:


My wise father once told me it isn't up to me to defend God's reputation.

That said, I must report with mixed emotions that the pain relief I experienced two nights ago has been short-lived.

It occurred to me to take down my gleeful post from the other night. After all, doesn't it make both God and me look ridiculous (and perhaps show cruelty on the part of the Former) to have declared a healing which turned out to be less than 24 hours of respite?

No. And I'll tell you why.

First off, I'm no worse off than I was before this all happened. In fact, God graciously gave me an evening and night's sleep unhindered by foot pain - something I haven't been able to enjoy for some time.

Second, a question that was plaguing me can be shelved for another day. I couldn't help but wonder, in the midst of my rejoicing, why me?

People typically ask that question when they've been on the receiving end of bad circumstances, like a cancer diagnosis or the death of a loved one. In my case, despite singing God's praises for my apparent healing, I couldn't help but wonder why a relatively minor (albeit quite unpleasant) problem like mine was singled out for healing, while I can list countless friends suffering from debilitating pain, disability and life-threatening illness.

Where's their healing?

Indeed, if anyone's going to claim unfairness, it ought to be cancer patients who experience remission, only to have the disease come roaring back and oftentimes take their lives after years of valiant combat. In searching for meaning in what I've experienced, I must admit that now, at least I have an inkling of what such heroic folks go through.

And another thing. My mind leans toward cause and effect, actions and consequences. If something goes wrong in my world, I wonder what sins God is punishing me for, or what lesson He can only teach me through trouble. Conversely, when something goes well - especially something major like a perceived healing - I tick off reasons for my good fortune. When I thought my foot was healed, I struggled against wanting to take partial credit.

My thinking went something like this: "Instead of getting wrapped up in self-pity over the limitations my pain was inflicting, I nobly served from home last weekend. Instead of focusing on what I couldn't do, I found things like letter writing and phone calling that would bless others without causing my foot any fuss. Oh, and let's not forget that I went to church Sunday night, instead of yielding to laziness, and if I hadn't gone to church, I wouldn't have reconnected with Ed, and he wouldn't have prayed over my foot, and..."

You get the picture.

The only problem was, for every right choice I found, I came up with half a dozen wrong ones that should, if blessings result from good decisions balancing out bad, have knocked me completely out of the running.

I know. I think too much.

Then, there's the manipulative part of my makeup that wanted to make sure I didn't do anything to put the kibosh on this wonderful miracle. In other words, what heavenly bar would I have to uphold in order for God not to withdraw His benevolence in this area of my life?

For instance, if I'm supposed to get a handle on gluttony, well, that's been a lifelong battle with varying levels of success (mostly failure, truth be told). But maybe if I took off weight again, and kept it off this time, and never pigged out again, and kept up with all my exercises more religiously, and... and... and...

Like I said, I overthink things.

I must confess deep disappointment. For one thing, cortisone treatment, here I come. I'm not looking forward to that, or to the waiting I'll have to do (the docs can't see me till June) for an appointment that may or may not yield the desired result.

But the God I serve is bigger than any temporary or even lingering disappointment.

The God I serve can't be manipulated any more than He can be reached by human achievement, as the builders in Babel found out.

The God I serve doesn't take my pain lightly. While it may seem trivial when stacked up against terminal diagnoses and crippling disabilities, it's still very real to me. If it weren't so real, the relief wouldn't have been so welcome.

Yes, the pain is real - but so was the temporary reprieve, and so is the Redeemer.

And, by the way, it's still all about His glory.

As Ed so correctly observed, it's about the Healer, not the healing. The band, MercyMe, poignantly points this out in their crowning composition, The Hurt and the Healer:

So here I am

What's left of me

When glory meets my suffering

I'm alive

Even though a part of me has died

You take my heart and breathe it back to life

I fall into Your arms open wide

When the hurt and the Healer collide*

So, where does all this leave me? As I struggle to understand the events of the last few days, two passages resonate, calling this disappointed but still faith-filled daughter back to the altar. I'll let the prophet Habakkuk and the apostle Paul have the last words:

Though the fig tree may not blossom,

Nor fruit be on the vines;

Though the labor of the olive may fail,

And the fields yield no food;

Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,

And there be no herd in the stalls—

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will joy in the God of my salvation.

The Lord God is my strength;

He will make my feet like deer’s feet,

And He will make me walk on my high hills.

~ Habakkuk 3:17-19

And lest I should be exalted above measure by the abundance of the revelations, a thorn in the flesh was given to me, a messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I be exalted above measure. Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me. 

 And He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

 Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. 

For when I am weak, then I am strong.

~ 2 Corinthians 12:7-10        

*Bryson, J., Cochran, N., Graul, B., Millard, B., Scheuchzer, M., and Robby Shaffer. (2012). 
       The Hurt & the Healer [Lyrics]. Retrieved from    
       https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mercyme/thehurtthehealer.html

For more like this, check out: Disappointment