I went snow tubing with my son this evening. It was an event sponsored by his school. The hill is immense and steep, sloping down onto a frozen lake. The moon was big, almost full. The air, frigid. And there were lots of kids. Everywhere.
While my son tubed, my wife and I trudged down to the lodge at the base of the hill to have hot chocolate and eat homemade cookies. It was a good night, where all kinds of people came together for the sake of the kids. There was no arguing. I didn't hear the word "Trump" once, thank God. The biggest drama of the night was when my son fell off his tube on one of his descents.
Tonight emphasized one thing to me: we are more similar than different. We all want happy kids. We all want hot chocolate and cookies. And we all want to get to the bottom of the hill safely.
Saint Marty doesn't think anyone will object to that.
by: William Stafford
In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity--the ordered life
our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife,
our chance to live depends on such a sign
while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon
is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith;
be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face
annihilation unless all citizens get in line."
I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere
other citizens more fearfully bow
in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there
will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows
cross: never to kill and call it fate.