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a previously censored portion of my "I like bacon" post

I considered opening this with a disclaimer, but then I remembered: this is my blog, and I’m not forcing anyone to read it, let alone agree with it. So here goes.

I am Catholic, an actual Catholic who believes & agrees with the Pope. (Ok, at least most of the time. There are, admittedly, some doctrines I struggle with.) With that in mind, Pope Benedict summed up so much of my Catholic-worldview beliefs in his message delivered on the World Day of Peace this year (January 1, 2008):

Respecting the environment does not mean considering material or animal nature more important than man. Rather, it means not selfishly considering nature to be at the complete disposal of our own interests…

With that context, we should respect and be good stewards of our environment, but not at the expense of human life; we should respect and have compassion for all God’s creatures, but, again, not at the expense of human beings.

One question this raises for me is whether we should eat meat, since we can survive without it. I’m still not going to expound on that issue yet.

The bigger issue for me, though, is the hypocrisy that I have encountered regarding the value of animal life versus that of human life. I know there will be some out there who’ll take offense to my separation of the two, but human beings are not just “other animals,” and animals are not human and should not be afforded the same rights as human beings. They deserve humane treatment, yes, absolutely, but not human rights.

However, human life deserves human rights.

Anyone who knows me knows I am adamantly pro-life, something that is reflective of my Catholic beliefs, but that is based in much more than religion for me. That’s not to say I can’t put myself in the place of the single woman facing an unplanned pregnancy, the impregnated rape victim, or the woman with health issues that could prevent her from carrying a baby full-term safely. However, as empathetic and codependent as I am, I know in my core that human life begins at conception.

A little over a month ago on December 31st, I had the opportunity to visit the Body Worlds exhibit while it was in Charlotte. The exhibit was one of the most amazing, grotesquely beautiful things I have ever seen. It was uncomfortable to view, yet incredibly magnetic. (This blog covers the exhibit well.) One part of the exhibit focused on fetal development. The curtained off area included human embryos from 4 through 8 weeks, fetuses from 16 weeks (I think) through 34 weeks, and a woman who was eight months pregnant, with her in utero baby exposed. As awesome (and hard to take) as the pregnant woman and babies were, the embryos probably amazed me most: I’d read it before and seen photographs, but to see the spine on a 4 week old* embryonic baby and to see the fingers on an 8 week old baby the size of a nickel, there is no doubt that these are children.

So, back to the beginning: where I see hypocrisy is in those people who are adamant animal rights advocates…and card-carrying pro-Roe supporters. I have a hard time understanding how someone can argue that hogs should have the right to move in their pens without being passionate that a child has a right to live.

My issue is really that simple.

* A baby’s gestational age is calculated from the mother’s last menses, typically about 2 weeks before her ovulation. Hence, a baby is 2 weeks old gestationally before s/he is even conceived! For me, that fits so perfectly with Jeremiah 1:5: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.”

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my "HI THERE" addendum

So since I posted my “hello” in the general forum, I’ve been thinking of things I didn’t say that maybe might have been worth mentioning. Or not. Either way, here’s more dirt on me.

I prefer LONG hot showers over baths.

I am lazy and procrastinate and sleep too much.

As a little kid, I thought I wanted to be a doctor. It sounded like a good answer. I’d never heard anyone say they wanted to be an “artist” when they grew up. Then I learned I don’t handle blood well. Kinda threw a kink in the works.

I liked chemistry in high school. I also liked and did well in geometry and trig. Physics was ok, calculus beat me up. History, well, let’s just leave it as that. However, I do often enjoy that channel.

I am not convinced that GW is the worst president in history, nor is he the best. He is human.

I am registered Republican. I am pro-life and pro-woman. I subscribe completely to the beliefs and causes of Feminists For Life and believe that the founders of feminism would be appalled at where the movement has gone. In theory, I am opposed to the death penalty. I believe in small government, low taxes, capitalism, and that we all need to take responsibility for our own actions. Sometimes for our ancestors’ actions, sometimes for our children’s. But not always.

I believe in private and individual charity, because sometimes the ends WON’T meet. But I also believe in hard work and in dealing with the consequences of the lack of it. I feel guilty for my tenancy towards slacking.

I believe in God, Christ, a “Catholic” (universal) church, and the rest of the Apostles Creed. I do not worship Mary, though I do honor her. I believe in the virgin birth of Christ, but struggle with “The Immaculate Conception” of Mary. I also am not completely convinced that Jesus was the only son of Mary. But I don’t think it’s worth arguing against.

It took an agnostic boyfriend to help me fully claim my Catholic faith. I meant enough to him that he came to Mass with me. We wrote bad poetry to each other in a journal we passed back and forth. Considering how poorly matched we were, it really was a pretty healthy relationship. He is still a dear friend with whom I wish I were in better touch.

I hate severing relationships. To a fault. I hate double standards but can understand occasional exceptions to rules. I have high standards for people, especially in terms of respect. You have my respect until you lose it — not the other way around. It takes a lot for me to write someone off. I forgive easily and often. But I am highly offended by consistent inconsiderations.

I consider creativity a spiritual language. I identify with GOD as Creator and Artist. The concept that we are all intentional creations, pieces of artwork, makes me feel warm inside. I treat others better, I think, when I remember this.

My mother says she knew I would be an artist when I made slippers for my doll out of paperboard and a little stapler when I was three. Why a 3-year-old had a stapler is beyond me, but it was one of my favorite art-tools. I made a series of paper “marionettes” with jointed limbs sometime around age 5. I wrote my first poem when I was 8.

I applied to the PA Governor’s School of the Arts for Visual Art in my Sophomore year in HS. I was accepted as an alternate but never called. The following year, I applied in both Art and Creative Writing. I made it to the “final” interview for both but was not accepted for either. I cried so hard when I found out. I felt a failure. I’m still pissed off about it.

*Correction, I forgive easily and often, except for myself.

I went to college 500 miles from home on an academic scholarship with an a small art scholarship supplement. I got a BA in art, not a BFA. Most people don’t know the difference. I am angry with myself about that too, though, the fact that I did not get the BFA. Mostly because I let a particular professor get to me. Also because I was dealing with “mild” depression.

I do believe there is a place for drugs in treating depression, but I also believe they are overused.

There is one nude picture of me on the internet. As far as I know, it’s the only nude picture that’s ever been taken of me, aside from my infancy. The picture is not hard to find, nor is it flattering. Yet, I approve of it. It is a self-portrait.

I currently work at a job that I liked better when I started it. I now feel it is a waste of my time and their money, but I still need their money, so I won’t tell them that yet.

I love my husband. I LOVE my husband. I love him deeply and completely, and it amazes me that it took me so long to consider giving him a chance. I realize he is not perfect. But he is a perfect partner. He is supportive, understanding, patient, and goofy. There are things I’d like to change about him, I think, but I know I can’t, so I don’t try. I think we are both happier for that. He is a fantastic daddy.

Even before realizing I didn’t want to be a doctor when I grew up, I knew I wanted to be a mother. I had never considered otherwise. Being a mother has been the most fulfilling experience of my existence so far.

However, I don’t know if it’s the predominant influence in my writing yet. I think that role is divided between two experiences: the death of my maternal grandmother when I was nine, and a less-than-favorable prematurely physical relationship when I was 18.

I had my first kiss too early and too late at 18. I have had intercourse with only my husband.

I enjoy pretzel sticks with my vanilla ice cream, french fries with my Wendy’s Frosty: salty-sweet makes me happy.

I love my cats, but I don’t know if I’ll adopt more when they’re gone.

Dreams weigh heavily on me. I hold onto them for years afterward, if I can remember them at all. I still remember a nightmare I had in preschool or kindergarten. I remember going to my parents’ bed because of it. It was something about great big dancing hamburgers.

I don’t read as much as I’d like. I forget most that I do read. But I do enjoy reading. I admire JK Rowling.

In middle school I had decided my life career goal was to win both the Caldecott and Newberry awards. I still consider that. But my focus is elsewhere.

For now, I am happy to spend time watching VeggieTales with my son, writing during his naptimes.

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Fierce belief: gift or poison?

So I’m reading stuff on www.iusedtobelieve.comand I can’t help but think of the whole Santa disillusionment for me. I mean, that happened when I was 9, and I still have issues with it… I still feel bitter about how I found out, etc. I guess I just needed something to hold onto then.

Can you all keep a secret? Because I’m about to share something that has the potential to be incredibly embarrassing. I was so naive… here goes…

So that year when I was 9, mom was pregnant with my brother & my grandma was dying of cancer. It seemed like forever that Grandma was in the hospital, but I learned later that it was only a span of about 2 weeks between when she went in and when she passed away. That was in September. Anyhow, so less than 2 months after Grandma died, my brother was born. (That was the beginning of November.) So there was a lot going on in my 9-yr-old life.
Meanwhile, I still was a strong believer in the Bearded One. When the Debates would take place on the bus rides home from school, I couldn’t help but argue his existence. (I guess it didn’t help that I truly believed that one of our bus drivers was Santa himself… but that’s another story altogether.) But not only did I believe Santa’s existence, I believed that he had a special connection to God, heaven, and all things divine. I mean, I knew Santa was “St. Nicholas,” and nothing short of a miracle would allow him to do what he did each year. So God Himself had to be in on the deal.

With that in mind, should it be any kind of surprise that I thought that he would be able to pass a message on to my deceased grandmother? I had written a letter to her on my good stationery and tucked it away to stick in my stocking on Christmas eve. Now, for years prior, my sister and I would make cards and such for Santa and stick them in our stockings before Christmas — when he went to fill them he would find them. And Mom and Dad knew about those, so it was ok to put them in early in December. But this letter had to wait until Christmas eve: I didn’t want Mom to find out about it. But Christmas Eve came and went too quickly, and so I forgot. I didn’t worry too much though… because I knew he didn’t just work on Christmas: he made the rounds too for St. Nicholas’ Day and for Little Christmas. So as long as I put it in my stocking on the eve of Little Christmas he would get it.

Mom told me right after New Year’s (right after I went back to school) the truth about Santa. I won’t go into details about that here or now because that’s not what this entry’s about. But the short of it is that I learned the truth before I put that letter out for Santa. I guess I’m thankful for that — I would have felt so embarrassed, and I’m willing to bet it would have been hard for mom to deal with then. I felt so broken though. Heck, as I write this, I still hold back tears. blah.

now remember… that all is a secret though. Right?

Sure.